Enharmonic Interval
by Locked Owle
Summary: At eighteen Harry figures that he's done all the good that he's ever going to do. SHIELD thinks otherwise. Set Pre Avengers Movie. Potterverse AU after Goblet of Fire. Very Eventual Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Enharmonic Interval**

**Summary**: At eighteen Harry figures that he's done all the good that he'd ever going to do. SHIELD thinks otherwise. First in the Team Dynamics Series. Set Pre-Avengers Movie. Potterverse is AU after book 4.

**Extended Summary**: Enharmonic Interval is the first story in a series. The series will also crossover with the Batman Nolan verse in a major way. This story is set several years before the Avengers movie. Potterverse goes **very** AU after book 4, which means keep an open mind. If you're not a fan of backstory and explanations being revealed over time this story might frustrate you. Likewise for people who dislike unreliable narration, or characters who outright lie to other characters without any indication at the time that they might be lying.

That said, thank you for reading my story! I hope that you enjoy the ride; it's a crazy one.

PS: I own nothing anyone would recognize, and everything that no one would.

Chapter 1:

* * *

Harry was eleven years old when he began to figure it out. The thought had existed for a long time, but in a new and strange place it still prevailed. In the end, the lesson didn't stick.

He was young, and he was foolish.

He was twelve and the opportunity recurred. He was older, smarter, but not smart enough. Again the chance slipped away and Harry reverted.

He was thirteen and he had hope, however brief. He learned another lesson then. You can't lose something until you have something to lose.

He was fourteen. He'd seen the beginning of the end. And he finally, finally understood.

He'd been stubborn, and it had taken years but now he knew. And he wouldn't forget.

"I want to be ready," he said calmly.

Sirius sucked in a furious breath, but a single glance made him deflate. He stared at Harry with a furious worried desperation. But he had no answers. So Harry turned to the Headmaster, whom he knew held the majority of the cards here.

"I want to be ready," he repeated. "He's going to come for me and he will kill me if I'm not prepared. So tell me. Tell me everything."

Dumbledore remained gravely silent for a moment, staring deeply into Harry's eyes. He seemed to come to a decision then. He straightened in his chair, his presence swelling until it touched every corner of his office.

"Very well."

Because Harry understood now. In the end, no one would be able to save him. If he wanted to live, he would have to save himself. No matter what it took.

He was fourteen, and he was done being helpless.

* * *

He was seventeen and victorious. Seventeen and different. Seventeen and broken.

And the world, the world was wrong. His people were weak and fearful.

It didn't end with Voldemort. There would always be evil. Humanity would continue to create evil. So now he would be there to stop it in all the forms it existed. He relished the burn, reveled in the collective majesty of the all those around him. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if his brothers had not been there to gasp his elbows. Bolstered. Surrounded. Buffered. Safe.

And the Master, the Master was smiling. "Welcome Brother, to the League of Shadows."

* * *

He was eighteen, and he was probably going to die.

The arrow pierced him high, entering the back of his shoulder, sinking all the way through and exiting in the front. Then the head blossomed into a claw and dug into the skin and muscle around the wound. Harry had a moment to think _oh shit_ before he was jerked off his feet.

He managed to twist as he fell to keep his weight off the wound, but couldn't protect himself beyond that.

_Oh shit_, he thought again. And then, _who the fuck just shot me with an arrow? _

There was the crunch of someone approaching over the roof tiles, and he quickly began groping at the arrowhead. He managed to detach the gripping arms just as the footsteps drew near. He rolled to his feet and ripped the arrow free in one motion. He stabbed out with it, hoping to catch his attacker off guard. The woman sidestepped out of the way, wielding a long wicked looking knife. Harry fell back, eyes cutting side to side as he searched for an escape.

The woman hadn't fired the arrow. There was no sign of a bow anywhere nearby. That meant backup. It meant that his chances of surviving this took a nosedive. Harry tossed the arrow shaft away, and reached for the knife strapped to his thigh.

"I wouldn't," the woman said coolly.

Her body suit was free of distinguishing markings. Her hair was a bright vibrant red, pulled back into a low messy tail that reached mid back. Her face was intent, with just a hint of an amused smile curling up her lips at the corners. Her sniper could have taken him out; Harry was fairly sure of that. For some reason they didn't want him dead.

Harry hesitated and then dropped his hand.

"What do you want?"

There was another crunch behind him, but Harry was already turning, hand falling back to his hip.

"Ah! Hold it." The man who had appeared behind him motioned with his loaded compound bow, indicating that he wanted Harry to take a step back from the roof's edge.

Harry grit his teeth, but took a shuffling step farther onto the roof.

"Nice to meet you in person, Nightshade," the woman said.

"Likewise," Harry said flatly. "Who the hell are you?"

"Black Widow."

"Shit."

"Yeah," the man said. "And I'm Hawkeye."

Harry stared at him for a long moment. "Who?"

The man's lips parted, his eyes widening in surprised outrage. "What do you mean who?"

"I mean, 'I have no fucking idea who you are."

Hawkeye pressed his lips together, and he shook his head in disbelief. Widow's eyebrows were raised, and she was smiling slightly.

"Shut up," Hawkeye said to her without lifting his gaze from Harry.

"What do you want?" Harry asked.

Black Widow and Hawkeye shared a look over Harry's head.

"How old are you kid?" Hawkeye asked, his voice grave.

Harry sighed, resisting the urge to rub at his face because it was _always _this. The Master hadn't cared how young he'd been. His people, (the people Before – before he'd won/loss – when he'd been whole) they hadn't cared. It was only now that people questioned. The questions usually stopped after he completed his first assignment, but it grew so tiresome at times. So he sighed, let his face go carefully blank, and didn't answer.

"Okay kid," Hawkeye said and he sounded resigned.

Black Widow moved, and Harry's head snapped in her direction, wary of the knife she held.

There was a draw back to bows, which was why it was so unusual that Agent Hawkeye used one in the field. They telegraphed far too easily, and became useless at short range. It made little sense that Hawkeye would reveal himself, especially when both Agents had to have known that Harry was alone.

So when Hawkeye drew his arm back, Harry was already moving, spinning and sprinting to the edge of the roof. He hadn't counted on Black Widow slipping in between him and his escape, slashing out with her knife and trying to drive him back. He was wounded, he remembered grimly, and outnumbered. Not outmatched, he was pretty sure of that. Individually, Harry was confident that he could have taken them. With them together, and his range of motion arrested by his wound, the chances were slim.

Harry rolled, groping at his belt with his left hand while he finally unsheathed his knife with the right. He came to his feet, and then pushed off with his back foot. Black Widow's eyes narrowed as she was forced to take a step back to keep Harry outside her guard, Harry seamlessly taking offensive. He feinted right, and then spun, releasing the power in his left hand and blowing. Widow brought her hands to her face instinctively, protecting her eyes and nose. Harry jumped, using her exposed thigh as a platform, and spun, slashing at the back of her exposed neck. The end of Hawkeye's bow arrested what would have been a killing strike. Harry followed through, striking Hawkeye in the temple with the flat of his foot as he grasped the agent's back shoulder. He re-launched himself, but somehow Black Widow was in the air too. She wrapped her thighs around Harry's shoulders and bore him to the ground.

He landed on his wounded shoulder, but shoved the pain aside in time to block Widow's sparking gauntlets as she attempted to bring them down on his head. He brought his right leg up between them, knocking Widow aside and flipping them. He brought his knife up to her throat, victory rising triumphantly in the back of his throat.

It descended just as quickly when he felt the sharp point of an arrow digging into the back of his neck, and the equally sharp edge of a knife pressing at the inside of his thigh.

Widow looked up at him, her expression still coolly intent, but slightly also reluctantly intrigued.

"Where'd you learn that?" she asked, only slightly out of breath. "That launch?"

Harry paused, holding himself stiffly between the sharp point of the arrow and the equally sharp edge of the knife. "The first one?" he asked.

"The second, from his shoulder."

"It wasn't a launch," Harry admitted. "I was already in the air." After a moment, Harry asked. "How did you-?" Because he was going to die, and why not learn a final lesson before he went.

"He launched me as he was going down. Thigh to shoulder."

"Huh." He couldn't help himself, so he added, "If he hadn't been here, this fight would have ended much differently."

Hawkeye shifted, and Harry cut his eyes to him briefly in time to see the man roll his eyes. "We could have killed you 10 times over, kid. Drop the knife."

"Why should I?"

"Because we need to bring you in, and I'd rather you walk instead of us having to carry you."

"Bring me in?"

"Yeah," Hawkeye said. "So drop it."

Harry narrowed his eyes down at Widow, who raised a challenging eyebrow. They wanted to bring him in, most likely to interrogate him before they executed him. No way. Widow's eyes narrowed and before Harry could follow through with his knife, she slashed at his thigh with hers, arching up and sliding her forearm between his wrist and her shoulder at the same time. Harry pressed down automatically, but his knife scrapped uselessly against her gauntlet. There was a hot bloom of pain in the tight muscle where his neck met his shoulder, and he was tugged back by his collar. He lay there for a moment before remembering the knife. He jerked his hand up, aiming for his own neck because dead was better than taken. A heeled boot came down on his wrist.

"Feisty," he heard Hawkeye say, but the agent's dry voice sounded like he was speaking underwater – blood was streaming from the cut

"Very well trained."

"Better than you?"

"Oh he wishes."

Things got fuzzy after that.

"…call this unharmed? Someone get pressure on that leg wound."

"…will please the Director…"

"…a few hours out. How's he…

"…has seen serious action. Look at all his…"

Harry lashed out when he felt the clasps on his kevlar lined vest come undone. Or, he tried to. His hands were tied down.

"Don't touch me," he said. "Don't-."

He felt a firm hand on his sternum, pressing hard in order to hold him down.

Things fell away but a little while later he was blinking his eyes open, at once jerking against the restraints around his wrists and chest.

"Welcome back," a mild voice said. And Harry jerked again, turning to look at who'd addressed him.

He looked more like an accountant than an agent but there was a dangerous stillness that he recognized. It made him grow quiet, eyes falling half shut as he forced his body to relax. The suited man offered a sharp smile.

"Hello, Nightshade. My name is Agent Coulson," the man said. "You are now a guest of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Harry had been a 'guest' often enough to know what that meant. He'd also been around enough to have heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. They were based in the U.S, more than enough reason to avoid. Their acquisition of Black Widow sent the organized criminal underworld into a tizzy for a while. Her shift in allegiance had left a sizable hole, one that many clandestine persons had sought to fill. Harry had done his best to avoid the fallout, but he'd been able to boast a spike in the amount of job offers. But now here he was, in a position he had fought so hard to avoid.

"Okay," he said. "What do I owe S.H.I.E.L.D in exchange for its 'hospitality?'"

Agent Coulson smiled, and Harry's uneasiness increased.

"You're lucky that you're with us, and not one of our rival agencies. It's likely that they would not have been so kind."

Harry pressed his lips together and glowered. Agent Coulson settled back into the chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He seemed willing to wait Harry out. Well whatever, Harry was the best at waiting. Eventually he closed his eyes. Agent Coulson was a solid presence, but Harry was able to set his uneasiness aside. The pain in his shoulder and leg was barely noticeable. He let himself doze, waking once in a while to see Agent Coulson seated at his bedside, reading from a tablet computer in his hands. Whenever Harry opened his eyes, Coulson looked up, his expression mildly expectant. By the third time Harry glowered at him, turned his head, and allowed himself to truly sleep.

The room he was in was private, with large windows on three walls and a door made of wire-enforced glass. He was under surveillance, both through the windows and the through the four cameras installed in the room. Two of the cameras were visible, situated in opposite corners of the room. The other two was hidden, one in the molding above the door and the other in the drop ceiling. He might have considered it overkill, especially with the restraints holding his wrists and chest to the bed. The truth of the matter was that if it weren't for the cameras, Harry might have felt comfortable enough to attempt to contort his way free. He would not be able to do so fast enough to avoid being caught.

So he allowed himself to be kept captive, but that was the extent of his cooperation. Twice a day his hands were freed and food was brought in, accompanied, of course, by Agent Coulson and another armed agent. For three days, Harry glowered and ignored them. He refused anything they brought him, even the water.

Agent Coulson never betrayed anything more than exasperation.

"What are you trying to achieve?" he asked as Harry's breakfast was taken away.

Harry frowned at him and remained silent.

"Medical plans on inserting an NG tube. Do you know what that is?" Coulson didn't wait for Harry to answer. "It's a tube inserted through the nose, down the throat and into your stomach. I'm told it's rather uncomfortable."

Harry raised his eyebrows, and tried to look as mocking as possible. Coulson settled into his usual chair.

"What's your name?"

Harry laughed at him.

Coulson smiled thinly. "I thought it was worth a try." The smile fell and he sighed. "I'm going to be honest with you Nightshade. My superiors are becoming impatient. Right now you are only useful to us for the information that you possess. If you continue to remain silent, we will be forced to terminate you."

Harry stared at him, thinking quickly. Dying was not something that he was prepared to accept. He had done too much to end here, in this place with these people. There were things that he knew, jobs that he'd taken – that information didn't matter much to him beyond the desire to maintain his own standards of professional integrity. They would want to know who trained him, though, and that was not something Harry was willing to divulge.

So he remained silent.

Coulson sighed, like Harry had disappointed him.

"All right," he said.

He did not return the next day, but Harry was the proud owner of a nasogastric tube. Coulson was right. It was more than a little uncomfortable. He slept, mostly out of boredom. He woke some time later, and a new person was sitting in Coulson's regular chair.

"I've been told that you're being stubborn," Black Widow said.

She had changed out of the body suit, which was a bit of a shame. Her jeans and black t-shirt did little to gentle the fuck you vibes she seemed to put off without even trying. Harry stared at her, just as unwilling to speak to her as he was to Coulson.

"You don't seem like a complete idiot. So I'm going to tell you something. Are you listening?" She waited, and Harry, reluctantly intrigued, nodded. "There is absolutely no one, and nothing, worth dying for. SHIELD will terminate you, if you don't give them what they want."

"That's not true," Harry said, and then pressed his lips together.

Widow leaned forward, gaze intent. "No," she said. "Life is yours from birth until death. It is the only thing that can be taken away that matters. Dying needlessly is the height of stupidity, and any death that is not on your own terms is needless."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do," Widow said. "Don't be an idiot."

"Why do you care?" Harry asked. "Why are you even here?"

Widow pursed her lips and sat back. She stared at Harry for a long time, and Harry felt himself bristling under her gaze.

"What?" he snapped.

"How old are you?"

"I'm eight-fucking-teen years old and it _doesn't matter_."

"When did you begin your training?"

Harry sneered and turned his head away. "Nice try."

"You were young. Thirteen? Twelve?"

"Eleven, and before that I was verbally abused by my mother's sister and her husband. The first time I killed someone I was eleven years old." Harry laughed, staring defiantly up into Widow's stony expression. "If you're trying to convince me that I'm fucked up and that I have fucked up loyalties you don't need to. But they're my secrets, and if I choose to die for them, I will."

"You sound like a child."

"Fuck you."

Natasha laughed this time, unexpectedly bright and utterly mocking. "I was wrong. You're young, and you're stupid. You'll allow yourself to be killed in a fit of childish pique. Never mind," she said, and stood up. "I'll go and let Coulson know that you're a waste of our time."

Harry glared at the back of her head, and continued glaring until she disappeared from Harry's sight. He seethed for a few hours, glaring at each of the cameras and at the medical personnel when they came to check the dressings on his wounds. When he next woke he was calmer, and spent the next few hours waiting for Coulson or Widow to show up.

Instead two men in kevlar marched in, an agent in a lab coat trailing behind them. Harry stared up at them, and wondered if this was it. Would he be taken somewhere and quietly taken care of? How would they do it? The medic suggested that it might be drugs, and the armed guards might just be there for the medic's protection. He'd thought that he was ready for this, but staring it down he felt himself cower back. The medic reached for the IV tubing hanging above Harry's head.

"Wait," he said. "Wait! I want to talk to Agent Coulson."

The medic stared at him dispassionately. "I have orders," he said.

He depressed the syringe. Harry stared at the IV, breathing quickly and flexing his fingers.

"I want to talk to Agent Coulson," he said again.

The medic didn't answer. The agents in kevlar remained silent as well. Harry closed his eyes, and his head settled back onto the thin hospital pillow.

"I want to talk to Agent Coulson," he said, and the words sounded wrong, blurred.

The world began to fall away, but Harry fought. He was not ready to die. He could feel the drug, and he hated it for what it was doing to him. He blinked. The world tipped sideways, and then fell away completely.

* * *

Phil was sure to make himself comfortable in Fury's office by the time the director stalks through the door. Phil doesn't look up, instead he sipped peacefully on his coffee as Fury stepped around him, and settled in his chair. Fury was not looking at him. He made himself busy pulling up his email. Coulson settled back in his chair, and waited. Eventually Fury sighed, and turned his unamused gaze onto Phil, who offered him a thin smile in return.

"Spit it out," Director Fury said.

"My report on Nightshade passed your desk three days ago. I need your permission to move forward sir."

"Do we have a real name yet?" the Director asked. Phil didn't sigh; he was better trained than that. Instead he smiled again and said, "There are a few possibles. Without verification there's no way of knowing for sure."

"And you haven't gotten this verification yet?"

Phil accepted the jab with a peaceful nod. "No sir."

Fury leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "We have no way of knowing who this kid is. He's been resistant to all our attempts to debrief him. Why should we give a damn if he doesn't?"

Phil stalled by sipping at his coffee again. Fury watched him, his bearing only slightly impatient.

"Barton asked me to try."

"Barton has a bad habit of picking up strays. Soon he's gonna figure out that not all rabid animals can be tamed." Phil nodded, conceding the Director's point. He remained silent, watching Fury expectantly. Finally, Fury sighed, his impatience cresting. "What do you recommend?"

His official recommendation was in his report, but he knew what Fury was actually asking for.

"He's young, and very well conditioned. With time—."

"How much time?"

Phil shrugged. "I'm not going to get through to him. Barton might. Romanova gave a passing attempt, but I'm sure that given the opportunity—."

"You want to tie up our two best operatives in something that might not even pan out."

Phil frowned, making his annoyance at being interrupted visible. Fury's eyebrows shot up, but that was the only sign of his amusement. Phil sighed lightly through his nose.

"If we can turn Nightshade, it would be a valuable addition to the agency."

"What do we know about his abilities? Is he a mutant? Human plus? What?"

These were all answers that Fury already had, and again, Phil knew why he was being asked. Even so, he said, "Intelligence leans towards human plus but we haven't seen any evidence of augmented abilities."

Fury turned away, his attention settling somewhere past Phil's right shoulder as he fell into his own thoughts. Phil sipped at his lukewarm coffee, waiting for the director to make up his mind. Fury sighed deeply, and pinned Phil with his steely singled eyed gaze.

"Two weeks."

"Six."

Fury's eye narrowed. "Four."

Phil tipped his head to the side. "Four," he conceded.

"We can't allow him to go free if we can't turn him," Fury warned.

Phil gulped down the rest of his coffee, getting to his feet at the same time. "I'll do my best sir."

Fury nodded, and turned back to his computer.

Phil wasn't really surprised that Barton was lingering outside his office door. He perked up when Phil approached, and trailed Phil into his office, closing the door behind them.

"So?"

Phil settled himself behind his desk, his eyebrows rising in question. "So what?"

"What did the Director say?"

"He said that you need to stop bringing strays home."

Barton hopped onto the chair in front of the desk, perching on the back with his booted feet resting on the seat. Phil eyed him disapprovingly but didn't say anything. Barton offered him a grin in return.

"You saw the kid in action. It would be a waste not to try to turn him."

"So you say," Phil said, pulling up the paperwork needed to transfer Romanova and Barton to HQ for the next month.

"What else did he say?"

"We have four weeks to make him see sense. When we're done here, go track down Romanova so I can brief you both properly."

"Wait me? I'm in charge of deprograming him? I don't have any experience with something like that?" Phil glanced up from the screen in order to raise his eyebrows. Barton shrugged. "Nat doesn't count."

"You know she does," Phil said. "And I just said that she'll be helping you."

"Are you sure about this?"

"If you want the kid around, we don't have a choice. I won't get through to him. You and Romanova have the best chance." Phil turned back to his computer, not looking as he heard Barton hop down from the chair and move toward the door.

"Start at the name," Phil said. "And be yourself."

* * *

Harry preferred the hospital room. There at least had been the occasional distracting visit. Here there was nothing but gray concrete walls, a reinforced metal door, a low rimless toilet, and a small, barely padded ledge that he assumed was for sleeping on. He had considered attempting to break free for a while, but he had no way of knowing what was on the other side of the door. The light was soft and diffused, no chance of shadows. He was sure that he was under surveillance, but he was unable to pin down the location of the hidden cameras.

In the few hours since Harry had woken no one had entered to speak to him. After he'd examined the room, Harry had removed the scrub pants he'd been dressed in to examine the liquid stitches holding the gash in his leg together. It was healing well, and he could move with little pain - good to know. Then he settled back onto the uncomfortable ledge to doze.

The door groaning open made him open his eyes, and he watched as armored agents carried in a card table and two chairs. They left without saying a word, the door thudding closed behind them. Harry debated getting up, but ultimately decided not to. A few minutes later the door opened again. Harry remembered him at once, but remembering how Hawkeye had reacted to not being recognized the night Harry had been captured, Harry was sure to keep his expression blank.

"Hey," Hawkeye greeted and collapsed into one of the chairs.

Harry did not return the greeting, instead watching Hawkeye warily from where he was sitting on the padded ledge.

Hawkeye pulled a battered deck of cards from his pocket and began lining them up on the table. Harry watched him carefully for a few moments before losing interest and turning away.

"You want to tell me your name?" Hawkeye asked.

Harry contemplated remaining silent before huffing and saying, "No."

"That's okay," Hawkeye said without looking up from his cards. "How about I try to guess and if I get it right you give me a sign, okay?" Harry didn't respond but apparently Hawkeye didn't need him to. "Widow says that you're from England. She wanted me to tell you that you need to work harder on burying that accent."

Harry opened his eyes and turned to glower at Hawkeye. "Noted."

Hawkeye grinned at him, and turned back to his game. "Is it a typical English name, like Reginald? Oh! Or Winston?"

"I'm offended on behalf of Englishmen everywhere."

"John? Garvin? Kenneth? Darrel?"

Harry drew his arm over his eyes.

"Roger? Daniel? Aaron?"

Sighing harshly through his nose Harry muttered his name to the inside of his elbow.

"What was that?"

Harry gritted his teeth, suddenly angry that the agent's juvenile tactic had almost worked. "Why are you here?" Harry asked. "I'm not going to tell you anything."

Hawkeye just shook his head and went back to his game of solitaire. "My name's Clint," he said.

"Good for you."

"Here I would remind you that I showed you mine so you should show me yours, but I know that you don't care."

Harry huffed, slightly amused despite the inappropriateness of his currently situation.

A few hours later Harry was no longer enjoying himself.

"Freddy? Theo? Dick? Ted? Harold?"

Harry lifted his head. Clint looked up from the game he was playing on his phone, his expression suddenly very interested. "Is that it? Harold?"

"When I had friends they called me Harry," Harry said, anything to make Hawkeye stop.

"All right," Clint said. "Nightshade aka Harry who-pretends-that-he's-not-from-England."

Harry pressed his lips together, and lowered his head back onto his folded arms.

"Our medics say that you're sixteen tops. What's a kid like you doing in a place like this?"

"Eighteen," Harry said before he could stop himself. "And if that was a short joke, consider me offended." A moment later he hit his fist against the stone ledge in an unconscious show of frustration.

Clint was quiet for a moment. Then he repeated, "Eighteen," his tone slightly incredulous.

"Don't you have something to do?"

"No. This is what they're paying me for. At least for the next few weeks." Harry heard Clint set his phone down on the table. When he looked up Clint was looking back at him, his expression as serious as Harry had seen it. "I'm going to be honest with you," he said. "You have information we need about the League of Shadows."

Harry flinched back, his gaze skittering across the card table for something to fasten to. Clint leaned forward, his expression turning even more serious.

"Yes, we know about them and yes, we know that they trained you. I've been given four weeks to get that intel from you. If you remain uncooperative, the Director will have you terminated. Do you understand, Harry?"

Harry took a slow breath, allowing his eyes to close for a moment before looking up. "You can't do that."

"Yes we can."

"I'm in America aren't I? Prisoners have rights here. Is your government really going to get behind executing someone without a trial?"

"Nice try kid. You're an unaffiliated agent. No one is going to fight for you."

"You won't kill me."

Clint stared at him evenly for a long time, long enough that Harry began to grow uncomfortable. "I don't want to," he finally said. "But I will." He gathered up his phone and stood up. "Think about it."

Harry watched the door for a while after Clint left, expecting someone to come in to collect the table and chairs. When no one did, Harry's attention waned. He closed his eyes, prepared to doze until something interesting happened.

Immediately a piercing siren began wailing from some unseen source. It filled the room, bouncing off the smooth walls. Harry jolted, his hands coming up to cover his ears. It didn't matter. He could feel the sound vibrating inside his bones, thrashing against the sides of his skull.

Suddenly it was over. Harry slumped, hands still cupping his ears, which were ringing in the aftermath. The whole thing had taken no more than thirty seconds. Slowly he realized that he was shaking, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"All right," he said. He looked up, searching the corners of the room and finding nothing. It didn't matter — he knew that they were watching. "All right," he said again, louder.

* * *

Hours later, maybe even days, Clint reappeared and tossed a protein bar and two bottles of water onto Harry's stomach. Harry stared at him blearily and shrugged to sit up from his prone position on the ledge. Clint made himself comfortable in his chair, unaffected by Harry's shaking hands.

"You're looking a little tired Harry."

Harry looked up from one of the water bottles. He was too tired to be amused and was edging steadily to extreme annoyance.

"I was on a job once," Harry said. "Standard infiltration that went complicated. I was trapped in hostile territory for three days. No sleep and no food." He waved a disdainful hand. "This is nothing. You're nothing."

Clint grinned at him, the expression inappropriately genuine. "Really? Tell me about it."

"Nice try."

Clint leaned back in the flimsy chair, appearing more comfortable than Harry thought possible in one of those things. He sighed, shaking his head ruefully as he stared up at the ceiling.

"I had one of those once. It was just supposed to be intel gathering. Things went south. I ended up separated from the rest of the team. Four days in the wilderness before I reestablished contact. Who bailed you out?"

"What?"

"When you were stuck in hostile territory, who bailed you out?"

It was a stupid question, and Harry scowled at him. "No one."

Clint nodded slowly, as if Harry had said something expected. "Is that how the League usually operates?"

Harry tossed the unopened water bottle onto the table. "I have nothing to say to you."

Clint leaned forward his expression finally betraying his frustration. "How about you make me understand why an organization would take an underage kid and leave him behind in hostile territory. Why do you owe them your loyalty? Are they worth dying for?"

"Yes," Harry said without hesitation.

"Why?"

"You wouldn't understand," Harry said, and then pressed his lips together, banging his head back onto the hard concrete in frustration.

"Make me understand."

"Get out," Harry said, and risked closing his eyes.

The room remained blessedly silent, and Harry allowed himself to relax for just a moment. As soon as he did the siren began and Harry's eyes flew open. Clint was sitting in the chair, expression hard. He gave no indication that he could hear the wailing. When it stopped a few moments later, Clint reached for his ears. When he moved his hands Harry noticed the buds for the first time. They looked a lot like ear plugs, but were made of metal, with a blue indicator light glowing dully. The light turned off as Harry watched.

"You're an asshole," Harry said, struggling to control his breathing.

"Yep."

"I don't want to tell you anything."

"But you probably do."

Ears ringing anew, it took a moment for Harry to decode that statement. When he did, he scowled. "I'm sure I don't," he said.

"I read somewhere that people have this compulsion to try to convince someone that they're right if they're in disagreement. To me, it makes absolutely no sense to give loyalty to an organization that won't save me if I'm in trouble. So make me understand. Just give me that."

Harry closed his eyes, but they flew open warily an instant later, his gaze darting to the ceiling.

"I can arrange for you to sleep for a few hours," Clint said. "Just give me something."

A headache was beginning to pound its way through Harry's temples. His eyes felt huge, gritty. Even his face was beginning to ache. Even an hour, and he would feel better.

"I got into trouble when I was young. The League took me in and taught me what I needed to know to protect myself."

"So you owe them?"

Harry shook his head. "I was part of them. A part of something. The Master…" Harry literally bit his tongue, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I think I get it." Harry's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Clint, who shrugged easily. "When I was young, someone took me in too. I grew up in a circus. Most of us were strays. Together we made a whole."

"Yeah," Harry said warily. "Something like that."

Clint stood, pulling more bottles of water and protein bars out of his pocket and arranging them on the table. "Get some rest," he said.

Harry lowered himself onto the thin cushion, his knees tucked in almost to his chin. He closed his eyes, body tense. The siren did not kick on and Harry released a slow breath.

* * *

Natasha was sitting in the observation room when Clint entered, silently terrorizing the tech seated next to her. The man visibly relaxed when Clint collapsed into the only other chair.

"Good," Natasha said without looking at him, her voice distant. "The next shift is mine."

"Do you think we can turn him?"

"Yes," Natasha said promptly. "I have no doubt. I'd be surprised if he makes it to the third week. He needs structure. For whatever reason he's been separated from the League — not by his choice. He needs to belong to something."

"How are you so sure?" Clint asked, and he fully expected the question to be deflected.

There was only one way Natasha could subscribe so resolutely to what she was saying. In the years they'd known each other she'd only spoken of her childhood once. It had been all Clint needed.

She finally turned her head to look at him, her dark green eyes hard and cold. She didn't say anything, but he supposed that it was answer enough.

* * *

It felt like Harry had only been sleeping for a few minutes before he was awake again. He opened his eyes, staring up at the featureless ceiling for a long moment. Then he turned his head to stare at Widow, who was perched primly in Clint's chair.

"Are you supposed to be the bad cop?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Have you given any thought to what we spoke about last time?"

"Nothing to do here but think."

Widow leaned back in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. "I didn't always work with SHIELD," she said. "I was a spy for the USSR, when it was still a thing. Long story short, Clint was sent to kill me."

Harry let his eyes wander over her, and tilted his head to the side. "Yet here you are."

"Here I am," Widow agreed. "Instead of killing me, he asked me if it was worth it, working for people who didn't care about me. It wasn't."

"How do you know that no one cares about me?"

Widow raised her hands and spread them. "Look where you are. No one is coming for you. I could pull out my firearm and shoot you in the face and no one would care beyond the mess your brains would leave behind."

Widow pulled another protein bar and water bottle out of her pocket and tossed them into the growing pile at the foot of the ledge. "I'm not saying that SHIELD is perfect," she said. "Nothing is perfect. Being here would at least be _your _choice_. _I'm guessing that you haven't had much choice in your life. Think about it."

She stood up to go. Harry cleared his throat and she paused.

"Is it true? About Red Room?"

Widow's eyes narrowed and for a long moment Harry was sure that she would leave without answering. "My first was when I was ten," she finally said, all the more chilling for the utter flatness of her voice.

The door groaned open, and slammed resolutely shut behind her.

Harry sat for a long moment, rubbing his hand over his face. He glanced at the small pile of foil wrapped bars and plastic water bottles, trying to ignore that yawning maw his stomach had turned into. He was hungry, he admitted to himself. He was thirsty too, and tired.

But the League was not the same as Red Room. The Master had sought him out, but he had entered training voluntarily. It had been months since he'd heard from the Master or any of the others, but their parting had not been in anger. If he attempted to search them out, he was sure that they would welcome him back. They had wanted him when no one else had. They had taught him what he'd needed to know to do what was necessary, when everyone else had insisted on coddling him. Now he did nothing that he did not want to do — Widow had no idea what she was talking about.

* * *

Things continued. Clint would come in and pester him until Harry let something slip in frustration. Initially the slips were small. Things like his favorite beer, or which grade of chocolate was better, white, milk, or dark. Every time it happened he clammed up, growing hostile. It never seemed to bother Clint, who left and returned a few hours to a few days after. Widow visited as well, and relentlessly laid down her brand of truth before cat-walking out.

In between was the siren, which sounded every time he kept his eyes closed for more than a few seconds. He was allowed sleep, but he could never predict when. High calorie food bars were delivered a few times a day. Sometimes Clint brought him an apple or orange. Every few two days, two armed guards arrived, put his hands in cuffs and escorted him out of the room and a few yards down the hallway to a small room where lukewarm water rained down from the ceiling.

More than a week later, Widow asked, "Do you know why you're still here?"

Harry glanced up from the orange he was peeling, his elbows planted on the card table. "I have this feeling that you're going to tell me."

"You're here because you don't have anywhere else to go." Like always, her words rang just true enough to make Harry uncomfortable, so he kept his head down. "With your training you could have made a few serious attempts. We left openings on purpose, just to see what you would do. Is it because you don't care whether you live or die?"

Harry popped an orange slice in his mouth. "You're the smartest Red." He offered her an orange slice, passing it across the card table.

Surprisingly, she took it, propping her feet up on the table. She stared at him for a long moment. "Clint likes you."

"It's because I haven't tried to strangle him yet."

The corners of Widow's mouth turned in, like she was suppressing a smile. "He has that effect."

She paused, her head tilting to the side. "He is still vouching for you, even though the higher ups are getting impatient. He thinks that you're another me, and that you just need something to belong to."

"And do you belong here?" The question burst forth without Harry's permission, but there was no taking it back now.

Natasha tapped one of her feet idly, staring into his eyes like she was looking right through him. It should have made him uncomfortable, but he was used to such looks, first from his Master and now occasionally from Red.

"Yes," she finally said. "Its better than dying."

Harry shoved the last of the orange in his mouth. He swallowed, his gaze falling from hers for a moment. "Maybe it's not."

She didn't move, but she did hold her breath for a moment. Her expression didn't change, but suddenly he had the whole of her attention — he hadn't even known that part of it was missing until he was faced with all of it. It was heady, and it made him just uncomfortable enough to lower his gaze. He cleared his throat, and when he looked up Widow was still waiting.

"They saved me. No one else had ever cared enough to teach me what I need to know."

Widow lowered her legs and leaned forward, easing her way into Harry's personal space so smoothly that he only noticed when her forehead was scant inches from his. He glanced up into her eyes, and saw no censure there.

"You needed to protect yourself."

"Not just me. Everyone."

Her eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in confusion. Harry shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

Harry shook his head again. "It's over. Everything's over. There's nothing left." He leaned back in the chair, recreating the distance that she had taken from him.

She didn't understand what he meant. She had to know that she almost had him. Harry knew, distantly, that she and Clint had been working towards this. They brought him food, were the only people he had spoken to for weeks. They were building trust, destroying his walls.

He'd let it happen, he realized suddenly.

"Tell me," she said.

Harry pressed his lips together. "It's all that I have."

Suddenly he leaned forward, folding his hands between them on the table. Red barely shifted, obviously considering him a non-threat. And when had that happened?

"I won't work against SHIELD," he said. "Please, let me go."

There was no give in Widow's expression, but Harry hadn't truly expected to see any. There was no need for her to shake her head, or to say anything at all. Still she reached forward and wrapped her small strong hand around his wrist.

"You're a smart kid Harry," she said. "Clint told you that the director will terminate you if you don't give us what we need. He's telling the truth, and we're running out of time. You say the League taught you how to take care of yourself. Don't you think that they would understand that you need to tell them what they need to know to save yourself?"

Harry hesitated, because the answer should have been yes. Death was not supposed to frighten him, only failure. His life had been necessary to destroy Voldemort - it had mattered then. Now, there was no mission, only loyalty.

"My name is Natasha," she suddenly said, distracting Harry from his circling thoughts.

Harry realized that he had been holding his breath, and exhaled shakily. "I like my name for you more."

Natasha tilted her head to the side, and her expression turned hard again. "Harry." Her hand was still on his wrist.

When was the last time someone had touched him without intending to harm him? Skin suddenly crawling, he shook her off. He stood, threaded his fingers though his hair and began to pace. She remained seated.

She said his name again, and he spun on her, his hands clenched into fists. "What do you want from me?!"

"Nothing that you can't easily give," she said.

"It's not that easy."

"Yes it is." She leaned forward, bracing her arms on the card table. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but follow the logic. If they cared about you they would want you to tell us what we want to know. If they don't care then there's no reason to keep their secrets."

Harry tugged at his hair. "You make it sound simple."

"It is," she said.

Harry paced for a few moments, fingers still tangled in his hair.

She said his name again, and he turned to her. He didn't know what he was going to say until he'd already said it. "What should I do?"

Her lips pressed together and it was a long moment until she spoke. "It's _your_ choice," she said. "I won't make it for you." She paused again. "You have your life. No matter what, that belongs to you. I would be careful how you spend it."

He stared at her, waiting for instruction, for orders. Some part of him, the small distant part, realized that she had him now - she could ask him anything, and he would happily tell her – and was horrified. Was he so weak, that she could reach inside him and say exactly the right thing? He walked over to the ledge and sat down, his legs weak. He kept his head down, digging his fingertips into his legs. When he looked up Natasha was still looking at him, waiting for him to choose.

The words came haltingly at first. He started at the beginning, and told her a lot, more than he'd told any single person before. When his mouth grew dry, she produced water for him. When he paused, unsure if he could continue, she waited patiently. When he was done she only looked at him, non-judging and unsurprised.

Harry expected to feel…something. He had betrayed his brothers, betrayed the Master. Instead he felt buoyant, like he could float away.

* * *

In the observation room, Clint leaned back in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, and found it surprisingly easy to digest the idea of 'magic.' Next to him, Coulson seemed to have no problem at all accommodating all this information. He was standing now, buttoning his jacket. Clint stared at him, waiting for instructions.

"Move him," Coulson said. "Get him a proper meal. Let him sleep until he wakes up. We'll continue when he's ready."

"That's it?" Clint asked.

Coulson turned to him, expression as placid as it always was. "I'll talk to the Director."

"He's in right?" Clint waved his hand at the monitors where Nat was watching Harry sit in exhausted silence. "He gave us everything we asked for and more. We can't just—."

"What did I tell you about strays, Barton?"

It wasn't an answer, but Clint smiled anyway. It wasn't a refusal either. His handler left the room, but Clint didn't move right away. Inside he turned back to the monitor, watching his partner and the kid — Harry. He had been the one to bring her in, but Coulson had been the one to debrief her. She had come to them voluntarily; preferring to change allegiance then face execution. She had told them just enough. Clint couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling that Harry was barely holding back. He wondered how long had twisted in the wind, unable to confide in anyone. He sat, rubbing his hand over his face for another moment. Then he hopped to his feet. He imputed his code into the panel next to the door. Natasha was on her feet when it opened, her brow furrowed in question. Clint offered her a smile. She nodded and stepped aside.

"Hey kid."

Harry looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot, his face tinted gray with exhaustion. He lifted a languid hand in greeting, and managed to look slightly expectant.

"We're going to move you somewhere more comfortable," Clint said.

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Harry wordlessly offered his hands, and Clint snapped the cuffs on. He had to prod Harry in the shoulder to get him on his feet, and then again to get him moving. The kid was walking like a zombie, his gaze on his feet. Clint shared at look with Natasha over his head, but she looked relatively unworried. Clint took his cues from her, watching as she took Harry by the arm and began leading him from the room.

They took him up a floor - still detainment but the rooms had real beds with actual blankets. As soon as the door was open Harry shuffled into the cell and collapsed face first on the bed, his head at the foot and his bound hands trapped underneath him. Clint dithered over what to do, but Natasha left, appearing a moment later with a standard issue gray blanket. She shook it out and tossed it over Harry without bothering to maneuver him into a more comfortable position.

"Do you know now long we'd been partners before you tucked me in?" Clint asked. "Nine months."

"I'm better looking than you," Harry said into the mattress.

Clint eyebrows shot up. "He wishes."

Natasha shook her head, and didn't bother to comment. "Do you want to eat or sleep?"

Harry's groan was muffled by the blanket. "Sleep."

"All right. Sleep now, eat later."

Harry sighed, his body visibly sinking into the bed. He was probably already asleep, but Clint wasn't so stupid to think that he should poke him and find out. He'd known and had cultivated trust with Nat for years and he would still never dare to do that. She was standing at the door, her head tipped to the side as she waited for Clint to join her. She thumbed the door closed, and punched in the code to keep it locked. They stared at each other for a moment, Clint waiting for her to speak.

Instead her shoulders fell and she frowned.

"Do you need Coulson?" Clint asked.

She shook her head, but still looked troubled. "The roof?"

"Sure. I've got nothing better to do."

They rode the elevator up. It was the nebulous time between late and early so they didn't meet anyone on the way. They didn't actually have access to the roof. It was an easy point of ingress in case of an attack, so it was easier to restrict access completely. Instead they sought out a narrow balcony that agents used to smoke on their breaks.

They were high enough above the street that sounds barely reached them. There was just the wind, the sea of glass and steel, and the sky that was just beginning to turn gray with dawn. Nat leaned against the railing and glared out at the sky like it had called his a nasty name. Clint let her brood, confident that she would speak if and when she was ready to. He didn't have to wait long; only a few minutes later she slammed her fist into the railing so hard that it bent slightly.

Nat was usually so careful not to let things like that slip, which was why Clint drew back in surprise. It seemed that it was the only show of anger that she was going to offer, so Clint relaxed, and turned to stare at her expectantly.

"I didn't like it when they did it to me, and I don't like it that someone did it to him," she finally said.

Clint nodded. "You both had it rough."

"I really don't like it Clint."

She wasn't looking for him to agree; she already knew that he did. Again, Clint courted the inclination to search down their handler. Coulson usually knew exactly what each of them needed to hear. He wouldn't leave Nat though. It wasn't that he thought she would do something foolish. She had _asked_ for him, something that she had only done a handful of times in their entire partnership.

She took a slow breath and then released it, the tension in her shoulders and neck oozing out as she fought to gather herself. She managed it— of course she did.

"Feel better?" he asked. She nodded, running a hand through her hair and squeezing the back of her neck. "Coulson said that we can have a few hours. Sleep or food?"

The corners of Natasha's mouth turned in, the look she got whenever she was suppressing a smile.

"Food, then sleep."

* * *

His body was sore when he woke, which wasn't an unusual occurrence. It wasn't the ache of overuse however. This was an ache that he wasn't as familiar with, one that came with a body having lain in one position for too long.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, but couldn't move much beyond that. He thought yearningly of coffee, and managed to lose track of time. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, eyes open but thoughts drifting, before the door opened. Clint had ditched the uniform for a dark t-shit and jeans. More importantly he was holding a ceramic cup in his hand. Harry would recognize that smell anywhere.

Clint said something, probably a greeting, but Harry wasn't listening. He levered himself up onto one elbow and reached for the mug with his free hand, his eyes mostly closed. Enough time passed where there was no coffee in his hand, so he grunted and made a 'gimme' motion with his fingers.

"Oh my god," Clint said. He pressed the mug into Harry's hand. "I wish I had a camera."

Harry gulped down the rest of Clint's coffee with an appreciative hum. He clumsily passed the cup back, and pushed himself to his feet.

"Mirror," he slurred.

"Through there."

Harry shuffled past him into the bathroom. He sloppily washed his hands, and then removed his contacts, operating almost entirely on autopilot. Without the case he had no where to put them, so he placed them on the edge of the sink, blinking blearily. When he turned around he almost ran straight into Clint, who had entered the bathroom behind him.

"You had those in this entire time?"

Harry didn't respond. He didn't have nearly enough coffee in him to be polite yet.

Clint didn't seem put off, but Harry had to squint to even make out his expression, so what did he know.

"I here to escort you to the mess," Clint said.

Harry grumbled something at him, and raised his hands for the cuffs. Instead Clint took his arm and tugged him along. The mess was nearly empty, and Clint deposited him at the only occupied table. He squinted at the dark blur in front of him, and was able to make out a single glaring eye in a stern dark face. Agent Coulson was seating next to the dark figure, hands folded on the tabletop.

"Hold on Director. He's going to be useless to you without this."

A mug was set in front of him, full of steaming bitter blessed coffee. Harry stuck his face in it, breathing deeply before he beginning to drink, never-mind the threat of burning himself.

When he came up for air, he was more awake, and mourned the absence of his glasses.

"Barton and Romanova have assured us that you'll be cooperative from now on," Agent Coulson said.

"Yeah."

"Good. We were able to corroborate some of the information you gave us," Coulson said. "We need to talk about the magic."

"Don't believe me?"

"We believe you," the darkly dressed man said.

Harry squinted at him. "I didn't catch your name."

"Director Nick Fury."

Oh. "Good to meet you Director Fury. Thanks for not having me killed."

"You wising up gave us a reason to keep you around," Fury said.

Harry frowned at him, bristling at his tone. Clint, who was sitting next to him shifted meaningfully. It distracted Harry from his annoyance and gave him a moment to calm himself before he said or did anything unfortunate.

"About the magic," Coulson said, unrelenting. "You need to understand that that information is extremely classified." He turned, addressing Clint as well. "The _highest_ clearance level. Understood."

"Yes sir," Clint said.

Harry tilted his head to the side, looking between Fury and Coulson. "You already knew." Neither one of them spoke, regarding Harry stonily for a long moment. Harry's eyes narrowed in realization "No," he said. "But you had an idea, and now you have proof."

Fury narrowed his eye, but Coulson nodded. "We would like you to give us as much information as you can."

Harry hesitated for a moment. Then making no effort to hide his wariness said, "All my experience was in England, and the last I heard things weren't going so great over there."

Coulson nodded, "You'll give us what you can."

"So that's it? I give you the information you want and you fold me into your operation? Just like that?"

It was Fury that spoke, his firm expression actually giving a little. "Yeah Potter. Just like that."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please review and tell me your thoughts. Unless your thoughts are stupid or rude, in which case you can certainly keep them to yourself.

-Owle


	2. Chapter 2

**Enharmonic Interval**

Chapter 2:

* * *

On the second anniversary of her induction and over a bottle of high shelf scotch, Agent Hill had asked him if he regretted joining SHIELD. Phil hadn't even needed to think before answering. It was true that it was unlikely that he would have a family. It was equally unlikely that he would survive to die of old age. It was a high stress job; his decisions had impact not only on the people working directly underneath him, but civilians as well.

No, Phil in no way regretted his decision. He was good at his job, second only to the Director. Highest possible clearance. He thrived on the stress. The decisions had to be made, and it was his responsibility to make them. In some areas, he was the best person for the job. Ego aside, it was a heady feeling.

Clint Barton had been instated into SHIELD just after his twentieth birthday. He had gone through four handlers before Phil had been assigned to him. Barton had tested him, disappeared, ignored orders, everything he could think of to make Phil go the way of the rest. None of it had worked. Eventually Barton had settled, and then he'd gone on to become one of SHIELD's greatest assets.

There had been little discussion when considering who would act as Romanova's handler. The fact was that Phil had turned her. Barton had begun the process, but Phil had made it stick. So she was his by default.

When it came to who would have the honor of wrangling Potter, there was no discussion at all.

"We test all new agents this way," Phil explained. It was nothing that he hadn't said before, yet Potter remained rooted in the center of the room, eyeing the chair and the equipment warily.

He was wearing his glasses today, and they made him look even younger. With the information he'd given them, they had managed to track down his birth records. He truly was eighteen, though his stature and features often made him look much younger, his attitude usually made up for it.

"Electronics don't do well around me," Potter said.

"You've said" Phil said, and nodded to the chair.

Potter didn't want to. His expression was carefully blank, but it was Phil's job to know. The first few weeks were the hardest. Trust needed to be built, and right now there was absolutely no reason for Harry to follow orders besides the fact that he would be terminated if he didn't. It was careful work, a dance of words and deeds working deliberately to the ultimate goal.

"We need a baseline reading," Phil said. "We want to understand how it works, just in case something goes wrong."

Potter's lips twisted derisively and he shook his head. He sighed, expression hardening in defiance.

The explanation of his abilities had been concise.

"I used to use magic," he'd said. "I was part of a ritual. I can't anymore."

There was more to it; of course there was. At the time Phil was more interested in the League, not how Potter had ended up there.

"We have information which leads us to believe that you have super-human abilities. Could that be attributed to you being a wizard?" Phil had asked.

"Sort of." Potter had clammed up then, and Phil hadn't felt the need to push.

The fact was, SHIELD had suspected that Potter was human plus for a long time. The use of magic was simply an explanation. The full range of his abilities needed to be documented.

"I understand your hesitation," Phil said, and Harry glowered at him. Phil offered him a thin smile in return. "You have my word that this information will not be used against you. We're only interested in your abilities."

"Your word," Potter repeated. He eyed Phil for a long moment, and Phil knew that this was not going to be easy.

Phil turned to the scientists standing by. "Give us the room gentlemen." They grumbled but marched out.

Their sudden isolation acted as permission, and Potter's wary stillness gave way to nervous pacing. Phil slid his hands into his slack pockets and watched for a moment before remembering that Potter was more like Natasha in this; he would remain silent unless prompted.

"You have no reason to trust us yet," he said.

Potter glanced at him, before looking down at his feet. He was frowning, chewing on one of his thumbnails.

"No," Potter said. "I really don't."

Phil tilted his head to the side, watching Potter thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he sighed and settled into the chair.

"Trust can be a complicated thing," Phil said. Potter stopped pacing and stared at him, his eyes narrowed. Phil smiled at him. "Romanova doesn't trust us."

"She doesn't trust anyone."

Phil nodded. "Yet she works for us. Has she told you why?"

"She said it was better than dying."

Phil paused, staring at Potter meaningfully for a long moment. "There's more to it. She trusts that we won't hurt her - that we'll take care of her. She believes in what we're trying to accomplish here."

Potter stepped closer, and for the first time Phil saw genuine curiosity in him, untempered. In her initial profile, Romanova had said that Potter would turn if given the opportunity simply because he sought to belong to something. Phil saw now what she had seen then, and knew Potter's question before he asked it.

"We want to make people safe," Phil said. "We protect people from threats they can't handle on their own."

Potter was quiet for a long moment. "You were willing to kill me," Potter said. "Like I was one of these _threats_."

It wasn't said angrily, like Phil thought it might've been. Suddenly he understood and he leaned forward, arranging his face into as serious an expression that he could manage.

"Yes," he said. "We would have killed you, but it wasn't because we wanted to. All we knew of you was that you were known to work for agencies that actively have worked against SHIELD in the past and rumors that you had contact with the League of Shadows. If we'd wanted to kill you, we wouldn't have bothered to bring you in in the first place."

"So I'm safe as long as I'm of use?"

"Yes," Phil said, and smiled. "But you and I know that that's the world we live in, Potter." He watched Potter's pinched expression ease slightly, and stood up.

"You did what you did because you wanted to help people. That's what we do here."

"Help people," Potter repeated, and wrinkled his nose derisively. "SHIELD helps the people that it deems deserving of its help."

Phil stuck his hand into his slack pockets, his head tilting to the side. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is."

"Is it?" Phil leaned forward, hands still unthreatening ensconced in his pockets. "SHIELD is run by people. People disagree with each other. I'm not promising that we won't come across individuals or groups that are against our interests, but as an organization our philosophy is against the loss of life. Deadly force is only used as a last resort. Can you say that the League of Shadows operates the same way?"

Potter's eyes narrowed. "So you would kill me for the good of poor defenseless civilians everywhere?"

"Yes."

Potter rolled his eyes. "That's comforting."

"It wouldn't bring us any pleasure to do it," Phil said. "It wouldn't be a decision we made lightly."

Potter stared at his shoes for a long moment. He looked up, unfettered curiosity back on his face. "Would they kill you, if you were a threat to SHIELD interests?"

"If there was no other way to make me see sense, then yes they would."

Harry blinked and fell silent, expression thoughtful. Phil smiled and motioned to the chair. "Ready to show us what you can do?"

They both knew that Potter wouldn't show SHIELD everything and Phil didn't expect him to. Potter settled himself into the chair, muscles tense. He looked up at Phil, nose wrinkled.

"Let's get this done. My shows are on soon."

Phil shook his head ruefully and walked over to the door. The three scientists were lingering just outside, and perked up when Phil appeared.

"We're ready for you."

They moved quickly, like they were afraid that their subject might change his mind. They attached the leads, speaking only to confer with each other and to ask Potter to shift so they could get to certain areas of his body. All of the information from Potter's physical was displayed on a bank of computer monitors nearby, and two of the men settled there. The third stayed close to Potter, checking over the equipment one more time.

"Are you ready, Agent Potter?"

Potter had closed his eyes when they were setting everything up. He opened them now, breathing slow and deliberate.

"It's too bright," he said. "Kill half the lights."

The scientist, an older gray haired man named Bryan, rushed to do so, throwing the room into shadow. Potter sighed, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them they had become luminescent, catching the scant light and shining it back out like an animal.

Bryan began talking notes at once, bending to peer curiously into Potter's eyes. Potter glanced up at him, his face still, shoulders loose and his hands resting limply on the armrests.

"Step back," he said.

Bryan hesitated a moment, and moved a single pace away. Potter took a deep breath. Phil wasn't exactly sure how to describe what happened next. One moment Potter was there in the chair, his body held in purposeful stillness. The next a thick liquid darkness was exploding from his visible skin. In seconds it had covered him completely, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. Then that was gone as well. He was still there - Phil was sure of that. The leads attached to him hung in space where they had been attached, yet as hard as Phil looked he couldn't make out the shape of his body.

Bryan had sucked in a sharp breath when Potter had disappeared, but now he stepped forward a hand outstretched.

"Agent Potter?"

"Yeah."

Phil turned his head, tracking the voice that seemed to come from the room's shadowed corners. The two scientists sitting in front of the computers jolted so sharply that Phil could hear it from the other side of the room.

"Barton's going to be disappointed," Phil said.

"What'd'you mean?"

"He's been trying to get you to speak with an accent for weeks."

Potter laughed, and it echoed, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "There's enough to keep track of when I'm like this," he said.

"Where exactly are you, Agent Potter?" Bryan asked.

The shadows in the room deepened, flexing for a moment before pulling back. Potter's eyes reappeared first. The shadows retracted as violently as they'd appeared. They did not disappear completely, instead existing as deep dark patches on Potter's visible skin.

"Wow," Bryan said, glancing away from Potter just long enough to scribble something down on his clipboard. "Do you produce this substance naturally? Where does it come from?"

Potter hesitated and glanced at Phil. Phil fought down his sudden urge to smile and offer praise. Instead he nodded.

"It's my magic," he said shortly. "No one could tell me why, but this is the only form it takes now."

Bryan had had weeks to acclimatize to the idea of magic. Thankfully it wasn't something entirely beyond SHIELD's sphere of knowledge. With Potter's induction they held the proof that had remained elusive for so long. If there was a specialist in the paranormal, it was Bryan. Phil was thankful for him now as he watched him fail to react to Potter's nervousness.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully and placed his clipboard on a nearby rolling tray. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at Potter's arm.

Potter took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a long moment. He nodded. Bryan snapped on a pair of gloves. He touched Potter's arm, probing the skin around the dark patches first. He frowned, glancing up at the two young men at the computers.

"Body temp?"

"90.5 degrees and falling."

Bryan glanced up at Potter's face, expression warring between concern and fascination. "Are you cold Agent Potter?"

Potter blinked languidly. "Used to it," he said. "It's worse because I'm not moving."

Bryan frowned at him, but continued his examination. He touched one of the dark spots sucking in a sharp breath as he did so. Phil leaned closer and tilted his head to the side as he observed Bryan's fingers actually pass through the skin of Potter's arm.

"Any sensation?" Bryan asked.

"Some," Potter said.

"Sir," one of the men at the computers called. "Body temp down to 87.3. BP 90/40."

"Is this normal Agent Potter?" Bryan asked.

Potter took another slow breath and nodded. "Can't hold it for much longer."

"We're done," Bryan said quickly.

Almost before he was done speaking, Potter was reacting. His head tipped back and he hissed as the darkness was violently sucked back into his body through the pores in his visible skin. Phil flipped the lights back on, his eyebrows raising when Potter flinched and clenched his eyes shut. Bryan had snatched his clipboard and was writing as quickly as he could.

"Status?" he asked.

"Body temp 87.7 and rising. BP 90/50 - within normal range. He runs low."

Bryan reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small penlight. "Head up and glasses off, Agent Potter."

Potter raised his head and removed his glasses with one hand, the other smoothing back his wild hair. Phil plucked the frames from his hand and tucked them into his own pocket. Potter glanced at him, brow furrowed, but soon hissed as Bryan shined the penlight into one of his eyes.

"We're going to have to get you in for another eye exam," Bryan said. "You having a tapetum lucidum isn't in any of your records."

"A what?"

"It's what causes eyeshine in animals. Very handy in the dark." Bryan leaned back. "I'd like to get you in for a deep scan, hopefully when your ability is active."

"Unlikely," Potter said. He was making no effort to hide the exhaustion in his voice. He stuck his hand out, palm turned up and fingers curled. Phil dropped his glasses into them. "Part of what strained me was making sure I didn't blow out all your equipment."

"And the drop in temperature and blood pressure? That's normal?"

Potter nodded. "Pretty normal. It gets worse the longer I hold it."

Bryan turned away to dispose of his gloves. "Get something to eat. No training for the rest of the day."

Potter's eyes narrowed, and he looked to Phil as if expecting him to intercede. Phil shook his head. "Doctor's orders," he said.

"I'm not twelve," Potter said sharply.

"No," Phil agreed. "But you are a SHIELD agent, and agents follow orders. Especially orders from medical."

Potter got to his feet. "Fine. Can I go?"

Phil nodded. "Romanova and Barton are hiding on the roof."

Potter frowned. "I thought you weren't supposed to know about that."

Phil stared at him for a long moment. Potter snorted gave a conceding nod. Phil watched Harry edge past Bryan and disappear through the doorway. As soon as he was gone, Bryan turned to Phil, his expression slightly pinched.

"I'm not sure what you and the director are expecting," he said. "I'm operating blind."

"We're working on it," Phil said. "Do what you can with Potter's readings. We'll get back to you."

Bryan looked slightly mulish but had nothing more to say and a lot of work to do, so Phil left him. Fury was on the phone when he entered his office - not speaking but scowling powerfully into space. That scowl was immediately transferred to Phil, but Phil had seen worse. He made himself comfortable in his usual seat and waited.

"I understand," Fury said. "But we're operating with very little information. According to our source…" Fury fell silent, listening, his scowl deepening. "Footage of his debrief will be made available to you." He hung up without offering any platitudes, but then, anyone who dealt with Fury on a regular basis was used to it.

"What is it?" Fury snapped.

"Potter demonstrated his abilities for us," Phil said.

Fury folded his hands the desktop and leaned forward. "So?"

"It's as he described it. I'm sure you'll look at the footage later."

Fury nodded, frowning into space for a moment. "And how's he doing?"

"Good, considering."

"Is he mission ready?"

Phil frowned. "It's only been a few weeks, sir."

Fury leaned forward and folded his hands together. He was silent for a long moment, examining Phil with his single eye. Then he sighed and dropped his hands onto the table.

"We've made contact with a member of the magical community," he said.

Coulson sat back in his chair. "That was fast."

"Dress anything up as a threat to national security and you get results," Fury said, and he didn't bother to hide his self satisfaction.

Phil stared at him for a long moment, his head tilted to the side. "Ah," he finally said in realization. "How did you know?"

"My father saw some weird shit," Fury said. "He crossed paths with a group when he was working with the OSS, during the war. Thankfully, he kept records of everything. At first he thought they were mutants, but their skills were too diverse. Orders came down to ignore it, and the investigation was closed."

Phil was quiet for a long moment, before he sighed and said, "You knew about Potter."

"I had a good idea. I knew that he was involved in the terrorist activities in England. He fell off the grid when he was eleven just like his mother. The only existing record of his father James Potter is his son's birth certificate and a obit in a village newspaper. There are stories like that all over the U.K — the threads are thin, but they're there."

"All right," Phil said. "And in the U.S?"

"If there's a community of magic users in England, I've got to assume that there's one here too, and someone in our government knows about it."

"You think it's an undercover operation, like the initial mutant program."

Fury nodded. "And we know how well that turned out."

"Are we going to get into another pissing match with the CIA, sir?"

Fury grinned, and it was not a pleasant expression on him. Phil had to assume that he knew, why else would he avoid smiling unless he was intimidating someone, or when he became too bloodthirsty to catch himself? If Phil were a lessor man, he would have shuddered. Instead he folded his head in his lap and smiled.

"I'll do my best to ensure that Agent Potter is prepared. Who else are you thinking of assigning to the team."

"You," Fury said. "_Just _you. This is too sensitive. If it gets out before we're ready, there could be an agency war, and that's not something we can afford right now. Hill will keep an eye on the middle east for you."

Phil recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and got to his feet, buttoning and smoothing down his jacket in one efficient motion.

"Barton and Romanova — "

"— can exist without you. Hill can handle it."

"If you say so, sir."

Fury shook his head and turned back to his computer. Phil left, already thinking of the materials he would have to make available to Hill so she could take over their interests in the Middle East. For a moment he toyed with tracking her down and giving her new assignment himself, but he quickly quashed that idea. The director liked to do things like that himself. It was unfortunate that he wouldn't get to see her expression when Fury told her that Barton and Romanova would be temporarily placed under her command. She had protested when Potter had been placed with him, though only privately.

"Why do you get all the cool toys?" she'd said, frowning into her morning coffee.

Phil had shrugged. "The cool ones tend to be the most trouble." Then he'd distracted her by asking how Mockingbird's last mission had gone.

He knew of course, and she knew that he knew. She'd allowed herself to be distracted anyway. Now she would get her wish — and good luck to her.

* * *

It was three days later when Potter stomped into his office and tossed a packet of papers on his desk.

"What the hell is this?"

Phil glanced over. "It's a comprehensive list of your dietary restrictions."

Potter's jaw clenched. "Obviously. I meant where do you come off telling me what I can or can't eat?"

Phil sighed and resisted the urge to rub away the headache he felt building in the bridge of his nose. "You're underweight," he said. "Your scans show —."

"I bloody well know what my scans show!" Potter said, and stabbed at finger at Phil chest. "I've been doing just fine for years. I don't need to go on a fucking diet!"

Phil closed his eyes for a moment. "Sit down Harry."

"You can't tell me —."

"Harry," Phil said. "Sit. Down."

Potter glowered at him for a long heated moment, but then collapsed into Phil's chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

"First of all, I am your handler and your direct supervisor. You will speak to me with respect." Potter sucked in a furious breath, but Phil didn't pause long enough to let him begin speaking. "Second, as your handler, it is my responsibility to make sure that you are able to do your job to the best of your ability. I know that this is all new to you, but I take this responsibility very seriously." Phil leaned forward, seeking to make himself as clear as possible. "You are underweight, Harry. Our scans show that you have been underweight for the majority of your life. It's affected your musculature and your metabolism. You're young, so there's still time to correct the damage before it becomes a permanent handicap."

Potter's glare had eased slightly, and now he just looked uncomfortable. "It wasn't that bad."

"Your bones don't lie."

The glower returned, just as strong and surly as ever. "I've managed just fine until now."

"Yes you have," Phil said. "But I'd rather you do better than 'manage.'" He tilted his head to the side. "Ask Clint to tell you what his dietary restrictions were when he joined up." He tapped his finger against the top sheet of the packet their in house nutritionist had prepared. "This is nothing."

Potter's face had cleared of any emotion. Phil wasn't sure if he was hiding embarrassment or further outrage. Potter was chafing, Phil could easily see that, but this period was frustrating for him as well. These interactions were usually hit or miss. Phil was good, so there were very few misses, but every time he misstepped it had consequences. Clint had been easy, expressive and wild. Potter was more like Natasha, contained violence with various well hidden triggers. Phil watched Potter, and saw his shoulders slump in defeat.

"You can't restrict my coffee," Potter said.

"Yes we can. Coffee isn't food."

"I've lived three days off coffee grounds."

"Impressive," Phil said. "My point stands." He turned back to this computer and pulled up an email from medical. "You missed your appointment with the optometrist."

"Yeah well…" Phil turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "I have my glasses."

"If you want the contacts you requested, we need your information on file."

Potter turned a mulish look onto his feet and muttered something unkind under his breath. Phil was kind enough to ignore him.

"Never mind that," he said. "Since you're here I can fill you in. In the next week or so we'll be traveling to DC to meet a member of the US magical community."

Potter's expression went blank, all tension easing from him in a single terrible instant. It was not that he had relaxed, Phil observed curiously. If anything, Potter seemed even more on edge. It was a stillness that Phil had seen in large cats — stationary, watchful, and ready.

"Okay," he said. "Why do you want me there? I showed you. I can't really use it anymore."

"You're the closest thing we have to a magic user, and from what you've told us, it's likely that you'll be recognized. That could prove useful."

Potter shrugged. "Fine." He stood up. "Is that all?"

Phil tilted his head to the side, carefully setting aside his confusion. "For now. I'll contact you for a full brief closer to mission start."

Potter moved toward the door, not walking quickly but with purpose. Phil shook his head and called him back. Potter turned, an impatient frown poking its way through his stoney blankness. Phil offered him the packet. Potter didn't snatch it out of his hand, but it was a near thing.

* * *

Jack was not panicking, but it was certainly a near thing. There were few things that perturbed him more than running late. There was something harrying about it. It was testament to being unprepared and it was a sign of disrespect, even if it was an involuntary one. All this was circling his thoughts as he rushed past the startled secretary and pushed the Chief's door open, barely stopping himself from falling on his face.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm so sorry."

Chief Shift frowned up at him, and then glanced over at the small clock perched on the edge of his desk.

"Oh," he said. "You must be Finder Jack Stone. My 2 o' clock?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry for being late. There was a problem with the New York portal. I should have left earlier."

Chief Shift's frown deepened. "It's fine. Sit down."

Jack gathered his bag into his lap and perched on the edge of one of the armchairs arranged opposite the Chief's large wooden desk. Chief Shift pushed aside a stack of papers to make room for his hands, which he steepled and pressed against his mouth. He was still frowning, and Jack tried not to let it bother him too much. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but had to give in when it began dripping into his eyes. Finally Shift turned away.

"Relax, Finder Stone. It happens to the best of us."

He began searching his desk, and unearthed a leather binder. He passed it over, and as soon as it was in Jack's hands he untied the cord and dove in.

"This is all the information we have on Harry Potter," Shift said.

"There's barely any information here, sir," Jack said.

Shift nodded. "We lost track of him, but he's popped back up. Before we were only interested insofar as the England's Dark Lord's interest in him. They were both England's problem."

"Why the sudden interest, sir? If you don't mind me asking."

Shift pressed his clenched fists against his mouth again. He looked tired, Jack thought, and the observation made him frown. Shift was the youngest head of the Central Magical Defense Agency in United States history, barely into his thirties. His dark skin was tinted just a bit gray, and the rough beginnings of a beard was growing in along his jaw and chin. Jack had only worked for his office for a few months, but he knew how many hours the Minister put in. Usually it didn't faze him, but now he looked tired, and more than a little harried.

"Do you want me to get you something? Coffee?" he found himself offering.

It only made Shift frown harder. "No," he said. "But thank you for offering." He pointed at the binder. "I need you to compile as much information as you can about Harry Potter. Conduct interviews, write letters, no stone unturned."

Jack momentarily mourned the loss of England's Ministry. It had been flawed, but it had at least been something. When it's dissolvement had hit the news, the community's reaction had been strong. The public had pushed for offering the British wizards aid. When the full story had broke, any good will had quickly shriveled up and away. It was generally accepted that the British Ministry had gotten what it deserved. Jack didn't feel strongly enough to have an opinion either way, but he wished there was a centralized source of information at least.

He sighed as he realized why he'd been given this assignment, as well as the fact that Chief Shift had skillfully not answered his question. "All right. When do I leave?"

"There's a portkey waiting for you on the bottom floor. It'll take you to the embassy in London. They'll set you up with anything you need."

"How long do I have, sir?"

"A week. Ten days on the outside," Chief Shift said and at least managed to look slightly apologetic.

Jack shrugged. He'd completed more in less time. "That's fine, sir."

Shift smiled at him. "Good. Your partner is probably already waiting for you." He glanced at his desk clock. "You'd better hurry."

Jack had been halfway out of his chair when the Minister had spoken. Now he paused and sat back down, sure that he was glaring unpolitely but not caring enough to do anything about it.

"Partner?"

"You didn't think we would send you out on your own did you?" Shift shook his head. "An auror has been assigned to accompany you. She's very good."

"Thank you sir, but I really am fine on my own."

For the first time Chief Shift appeared truly annoyed, and Jack knew that he should have kept his mouth shut. "It's not an option, Finder." He looked pointedly at his desk clock. "You're going to be late."

Recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Jack picked up his bag and got to his feet. "Yes, sir."

Chief Shift offered him a nod and returned to his work. And that was that. Jack signed and did his best not to shuffle out of the office. Shift's secretary eyed him warily for a moment before turning back to her stack of papers.

Jack took his time on the trip back to the central portal room, mostly out of spite. His excitement had been heavily tempered by the sudden addition of a minder. He was more than capable of looking after himself. He was a full member of CeMDA — he'd passed all the qualifying tests. His specialty was in intelligence gathering, but that didn't mean that his spellwork was lacking. He was frowning by the time he exited the elevator into the portal room.

Even after years — first in training and then as a full agent — the central portal room took his breath away. It was a true feat of magic. The Bureau was relatively new, only a handful of centuries old. It had grown with the Mundane government, becoming larger and more organized as more European wizards crossed the Atlantic. As their numbers had grown and distributed itself across the country, it had become clear that they needed a better way to centralize and police their people.

The central portal room wasn't truly a portal. Instead it existed in wizard's space, and was connected to the main Bureau offices in LA, Chicago, New York, and DC. The transfer was seamless, and felt just like passing from one room to another. Forget flash, subtler was better. As soon as the elevator passed into the portal room its front wall became transparent. His first time Jack had gaped at the scope of it. It existed in wizarding space, which could take any form the castor wanted. The portal room was twice as tall as it was wide and diamond shaped with four walls — one for each of the four cities. A panoramic view of the skyline decorated each wall. The first few times it was overwhelming. Now Jack barely spared it any attention.

Usually using the portal room lifted his spirits. Today his black mood held fast. The sight of the darkly dressed woman waiting at the base of the elevator only made his frown deeper. She was dressed in the standard auror uniform. A dark blue single breasted jacket, with dark gray piping around the buttons, collar and cuffs that was just pretentious enough that Jack had only ever worn his when he'd been sworn in. He took a bracing breath when the elevator doors opened.

"You're late," she said, and Jack knew immediately that this partnership was going to suck.

"Hi," he said, and unenthusiastically offered her his hand. "I'm Jack, L3 Finder."

"I know," she said. She took his hand, shook it once and dropped it. "Auror Gale Reyes."

Her glossy black hair was tied back in a tight severe bun. Her eyes were dark and utterly unimpressed.

Jack smiled tightly at her. "Sorry about the wait. I was meeting with the Chief."

She sniffed, and managed to look disdainful without the tiniest shift in expression. Jack shifted uncomfortably under her sharp gaze.

"The portkey?"

She lifted the large one-dollar coin. "We have a few minutes." Then she turned away, examining the New York skyline.

Jack hated silence, but didn't feel comfortably enough to engage in small talk. Instead he fiddled with his bag, picked at his cuticles, and finally began examining the far off ceiling. The sudden jerk in his lower stomach was as welcome as it was startling.

* * *

"All right kid." Clint said. "Come at me."

Harry eyed him for a long moment, and then struck. He was fast; Clint would give him that. He fought like Natasha, using his opponent's momentum against them. He was good, well trained, but inexperienced enough to be just a bit too predictable. Clint stepped back, and let Harry's right hook pass in front of his nose. When Harry dropped to the ground and tried to knock him off his feet, Clint was ready. He lunged forward, but Harry slipped behind him. Lighting fast, he tried to wrap his arm around Clint's throat, his thighs squeezing hard enough to expel any breath left in Clint's lungs.

But Clint was ready for him. He'd managed to get his forearm underneath Harry's. He broke his chokehold and threw himself onto the mats. Harry bent, pressing a hand onto the mat and flipping out of the way. Clint hopped up and smiled at him.

"Your thighs have nothing on Nat's," he said.

Harry offered an acceding nod. "Thighs of death."

"I'm standing right here," Natasha said from a few feet away. She was frowning at Harry, not in displeasure, but in thought. "Try that last move again, but start with your left foot," she told Clint.

Clint rolled his shoulders, and slipped his right foot forward. Harry nodded at him, and Clint lunged leading with his left foot as instructed. Harry slipped behind him again, arm coming up to press against his throat.

"Stop." They both stilled and Natasha came forward, examining the tableau thoughtfully. "Hop down," she said. "Let me try."

Harry slipped off and walked the few feet to his bottle of water. He plopped down on the mat and drank, watching with interest.

This was a good idea, though Clint had been a bit resistant when Coulson had suggested it. Clint and Natasha often spared together, and it couldn't be denied that Harry's style resembled Natasha's. She had years of experience on him — so did Clint — but he was extremely well trained for his age. Sparring together was a way to build bonds, to learn to work together. Natasha, perfectionist that she was, used the opportunity to observe her own moves from a different angle. Harry truly was a good stand in for her, close enough in height and build that Clint could toss him around just as easily.

Natasha was a bit faster, but Clint still managed to get his arm in-between hers and his throat.

"Left!" Harry said as Clint threw himself to the ground again.

Natasha was already bending back, twisting and pushing herself up into a one handed round off. And Harry was suddenly there, catching her foot in his cupped hands and launching her into the air. She flipped, landing atop Clint's shoulders just as he was getting to his feet. Clint brought his right arm up, forearm pressing out against Natasha's right knee. He bent and spun, attempting to toss her off and bear her to the ground. But something jabbed hard into the back of his left knee, and he went down. Natasha's legs came around over his head and swept his other leg out from under him. At the same time, Harry's arm swung around against his sternum. Clint hit the mats with a sharp exhalation, blinking up at the fluorescent lights.

"Not fair," he said as soon as he got his breath back.

Harry and Natasha were sitting cross-legged on either side of him. Harry was grinning. Natasha looked extremely satisfied.

"Not fair," he said again, and pushed himself up.

The lights flickered, plunging the bright room into twilight darkness for a moment. Clint stared up at the lights in confusion, when he looked back down his water bottle was sitting next to his hand, and Harry was blinking the glow from his eyes.

Clint sucked in a breath, but Natasha was already speaking.

"You're stronger than you look," she said. "That launch was perfect."

Harry tilted his head to the side. "That last twist…" He shook his head. "That was pretty great."

"Yeah," Clint said, and rubbed his chest and flexed his right leg pointedly. "Great."

Natasha's lips pressed together, her eyebrows dancing just a little bit in suppressed laughter. "Did we hurt you?"

"Yeah right." Clint fell onto his back and stretched. "So," he began. "Word around the water cooler is that you've showed the labcoats your super secret powers."

"We have a water cooler?"

Clint turned his head and stared at him. Harry stared back for a long moment, then turned to look at Natasha.

"It's your choice. Coulson plans on showing us the footage any way."

Harry looked between them for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Someone get the lights."

Clint was on his feet almost before Harry had finished speaking. He jogged over to the light switch and flipped it, throwing the room into darkness. The emergency lights prevented absolute darkness, and Clint night vision quickly adjusted. Harry and Natasha were both on their feet, and the kid's eyes were glowing.

"That's pretty neat," Clint said, and walked a few steps to either side, examining his eyes from different angles. "You remind me of a lion I used to know."

"That can't be everything," Natasha said. "What else can you do?"

Harry's shoulders rose and fell as he took a slow breath. Then inky blackness exploded from his skin. Clint took a startled step back, but Natasha leaned closer. One dark patch actually reached out for her, and Natasha ran her fingers across it.

"How does it work?" she asked.

"They're like arms," Harry said, and the tendrils coalesced into one large one.

It wrapped itself around Natasha's feet. She danced out of the way. It followed her. Harry drew his right arm back, like he was pulling on a leash and the darkness retracted, forming a rough ball in his hand. Natasha poked at it, and it squirmed. She glanced over his shoulder and beckoned Clint to come closer. He wasn't ashamed to say that he hesitated for a moment. Harry tilted his head, eyebrows raised, and Natasha turned and wrinkled her nose at him. He reached out and touched it. Rubber cement, it reminded him very sharply of rubber cement. His fingers sunk into it, and when he attempted to pull them out he met resistance.

They pulled free and Clint's nose wrinkled. "Gross." He looked up with a pleased grin. "Nice accent."

Harry glowered at him. "Thanks."

"What else can it do?" Natasha asked.

Harry flexed his hand, and the darkness began to drip through his fingers, defusing into the shadows. "I used to be normal." His lips twisted. "Relatively normal. Wand, spells, all of that." He shook the last of the darkness off like it was water. The dull shine from the emergency lights began to fade. "They told me I was lucky that my magic wasn't completely obliterated." His voice had gone flat and hard. "It's become…limited, but useful."

His glowing eyes flickered, and then disappeared. Clint did not panic, but he did move closer to Natasha. They weren't quite back-to-back, but close. Clint relaxed into the sensation of her at his back.

"Where are you?"

"Here," Harry said, and his voice echoed from every shadowed corner.

Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath. Then, "You've been holding back on us," she said. "Come on then."

Harry laughed, and his eyes reappeared for a moment, barely a foot away. The next thing Clint knew he was on the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs. A long partnership with Natasha had acclimated him to such things, but the kid was more than five years his junior — that rankled.

Natasha wouldn't let a little thing like supernatural darkness powers get her down, and was standing in the middle of the room, dancing around tendrils of living darkness as it reached out for her. If Clint squinted he could just make out the blurred lines of Harry's body, darting in to exchange a few blows before falling back. He kept trying to slip behind her, but somehow she managed to always turn and dance away. Superpowers or no, Natasha eventually managed to wrap her body around his and throw him to the ground. The living darkness retracted with an audible sucking sound, leaving the room dim and Harry easily visible. Clint got to his feet and flipped the lights back on. He snatched up their water bottles and a few hand towels and dropped them onto the mats as he joined them.

Harry was breathing heavily. Nat had barely broken a sweat. They stared at each other a long moment, and then Natasha sighed and climbed off of him.

"It's not very practical in hand to hand, but I can see how it would be handy if you were trying to stay undetected," she said. "How long can you maintain it?"

It seemed that they had finally reached the capacity for Harry's budding trust, because he pressed his lips together and remained silent. Natasha punched him in the shoulder, her expression displeased. She didn't push. Harry glowered at her and rubbed his bruised shoulder. Clint couldn't help himself; he punched Harry in the leg.

Harry turned to him, eyes wide. "Why are you hitting me?"

"That's one. I owe you one more."

Harry punched him in the arm hard enough to deaden Clint's hand. Clint kicked him in the shin. Next to them, Natasha began to stretch out her legs, ignoring them as the scuffle turned into a full out wrestling match. For the first time, Clint had the thought that this could totally work. Harry slotted right in.

Eventually Natasha got up and nudged them apart with one of her delicate looking feet.

"Come on, _schenki_. I'm hungry."

Harry untangled himself from Clint and bounced to his feet. "Pizza," he declared.

Natasha shrugged and sauntered through the small training room and towards the locker rooms. Harry and Clint trailed behind her, grappling as they went.

* * *

The British wizarding community was a cautionary tale, one that had made wizards all over the world take notice. Wizarding Britian had been the center, gaining more and more power. The emergence of a Dark Lord was inconsequential in the scheme of things. Regimes rose and fell all the time. What reminded constant was presence. The British Isles had always been a place of magic — _the_ place of magic.

It was sad, seeing what it had been reduced to and Jack regretted that he would never see it the way it had been.

The Ministry building was still mostly intact, though the people at the embassy had warned them about the mess in their lobby.

"Two years later and they haven't even started cleaning it up," their ambassador had said. "I guess they have better things to do."

They had been provided with a short range, one use, password protected portkey, which deposited them in the lobby next to the remains of a large fountain. It was so damaged that Jack could hardly make out what it might have been. Auror Reyes was either kind or disinterested enough to ignore his gawking.

Across the room, someone cleared their throat. Jack twitched and spun around. Reyes was far more graceful in her surprise, her pale colored wand slipping into her hand as she turned to face the threat.

A woman was standing on the other side of the atrium. Based on her stance it was likely she had been there when they'd arrived, but she stood so still that she blended seamlessly into the destruction framing her. She might have been pretty once, before the scar. It was a shaming thought, and Jack clenched his teeth around it, but there it was. The scar began just above her right eyebrow and bisected it. Her right eyelid was intact, but the eye itself had turned a dark lurid reddish brown — the color of dried blood. The scar continued down her cheek and jaw and disappeared into her collar.

She smiled, and it was not a kind expression. "Hello," she said, and sounded so much like one of his teachers at Salem that he alternately straightened his spine and raised his shoulders up to his ears. The smile widened into a grin, and amusement lit in her mismatched eyes. "Hermione Granger." She offered Jack one of her small hands.

"Finder Jack Stone," Jack said, and tried not to wince at her grip. "This is Auror Reyes."

Hermione offered Reyes her hand next. Greetings over, she took a small step back and clasped her hands behind her back.

"What can I do for you?"

"Uh." Jack cleared his throat and glanced at Reyes who stared at him dispassionately with her shark black eyes. "I thought our embassy sent word about—."

"Yes," Granger said. "I want to hear it from you."

Jack blinked at her, and glanced around the ruined lobby. "Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?"

Granger sat down on a large piece of rubble behind her, and crossed her legs. Jack stared at her for a moment, before he pulled his wand from his sleeve and conjured a pair of chairs for himself and Reyes.

Like pulling a bandaid Jack said, "I'm here to talk about Harry Potter."

Granger smiled at him and folded her hands in her lap. "What do you want to know?"

Jack dug through his back for a stack of parchment and his quick notes quill. He cast around for somewhere to place them, and ended up summoning another large piece of rubble to act as a side table. He turned back to Ms. Granger and cleared his throat.

"For our records," he said. "What is your full name and occupation?"

"Hermione Jean Granger. Senior Under-Secretary to Minister Gloryflower."

"Thank you for meeting with us Madame Under-Secretary."

Granger nodded her stare steady and expectant. Jack cleared his throat, and fiddled with his notebook but didn't open it. He'd written down all the questions he needed to ask, though that had mainly been a exercise — it wasn't as if he could forget them.

"When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Potter?"

"The last time I spoke to him was the summer of '94, just before we were to begin our fifth year at Hogwarts."

"He would have been fifteen at that time?"

Granger tipped her head to the side. "Fourteen. It was before his birthday."

"You didn't speak to him when he appeared at the Battle of Hogwarts?"

"It was barely a battle," Granger said. "And no. He was a bit busy assassinating Voldemort."

Jack leaned forward, not bothering to hide his interest when he was sure that Granger could see it anyway. "Is that what happened? We were under the impression that Voldemort was immortal."

Granger's mouth twisted up — too sour to be a smile. "Honestly," she said. "The things that people will say. He's dead, so he was obviously not immortal."

Jack frowned. "How did Mr. Potter kill him?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

Jack sighed. "Okay. Mr. Potter disappeared the summer of 1994 and wasn't seen again until the Battle of Hogwarts three years later. Where was he?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you were friends?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression and baring didn't shift overmuch, but a coolness spread between them. It turned the corners of her mouth down and straightened her shoulders. He had walked into this meeting knowing that she was a dangerous woman. Her exploits during Lord Voldemort's rebellion were very well documented, despite being underage at the time. She had outdueled the Lestrange brothers, killing one and maiming the other. At the beginning of the interview she had been formidable, intimidating yet personable. Now the only things keeping him safe were Granger's self-restraint and Reyes' reflexes.

"We were," she said, and amazingly her voice was unaffected. She paused meaningfully, mismatched eyes cold and penetrating. "We still are."

Jack swallowed, and wiped his suddenly moist hands on his pants. "You've seen him since?"

Granger's eyes narrowed. "Does CeMDA have a height requirement?"

"Uh…" Jack glanced at Reyes who stared back unhelpfully. "Yes?"

"Is it a higher number than their IQ requirement?"

Reyes snorted, which was a relief because Jack had been mostly convinced that she was mute. Jack rubbed a hand over his hot face and sighed.

"I'm sorry if I offended you."

Granger didn't reply beyond refolding her hands on her lap. If sitting on a piece of rough stone was uncomfortable she gave no indication of it. Jack cleared his throat.

"Uh. If you don't know where Mr. Potter was those three years, do you know who does?"

"I assume Harry would know."

Jack violently stamped down his annoyance. "Yes, but is there anyone else?"

Granger resettled herself and crossed her arms. "Why?" she asked.

"What?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"CeMDA is following up—."

"No," Hermione said. She leaned forward, expression sharp with interest. "Why now? What does the American Ministry want with Harry?"

Jack swallowed. "I'm just here to interview you, Madame Granger."

Granger looked between the two of them for a long moment. She pressed her lips together and exhaled hard through her nose. Finally she nodded to herself.

"To my knowledge, three men besides Harry knew where he disappeared to and how he defeated Voldemort. Two of them are dead." She stood up, straightening her jacket, and smoothing down her skirt. "You need to find Sirius Black."

Jack got to his feet as well. "The murderer?"

Granger smiled ruefully. "_Alleged_ murderer."

"Any idea where we can find him?"

"No." She offered Jack her hand. "When you speak to Harry, tell him I'd welcome a visit. The lift is still operational. I'm sure you can see yourselves out." She shook Reyes' hand as well, turned and disappeared around the corner without another word.

Jack blinked, dazed by the experience. "Wow." He turned to Reyes, his eyebrows high.

She looked back, her dark eyes just a bit wide. "She's four years younger than me," she said.

Jack glanced after Granger, and suddenly found himself very grateful.

* * *

Note: Thanks for your thoughts everyone! Very encouraging. (Except the ones that weren't. Those I either ignored or ridiculed. Which I did say I'd do.) Please continue to review.

Translation:

_schenki_ - puppies

Thanks folks!

-Owle


	3. Chapter 3

**Enharmonic Interval**

Chapter 3:

* * *

Natasha was up reading when her comm activated, something that she was thankful for.

"I'm here."

The irritation in Coulson's voice came through easily. "Main briefing room. Five minutes. Fetch Barton." He disconnected before Natasha could respond.

Natasha sighed, setting her book aside and rolling out of bed. She pulled on her clothes and took the time to smooth back her hair. Clint apparently had been asleep, and was still struggling into his shirt when Natasha walked into his room.

"What's happening?" he asked.

Natasha shrugged, waiting as he sat down on the edge of his bed to stuff his feet into his shoes. He glanced up at her, gaze sharpening.

"Bull. Tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything," Natasha said. "I was in my room when Coulson contacted me."

Clint got to his feet. "Where's Harry?" Natasha's eyebrows rose. It took Clint a moment, but she watched his brow furrow in realization. "It could be anything," he said.

Natasha hummed, her tone uncommitted.

"If he was going to try something, he would have done it before now. It's been weeks."

Natasha shrugged again, and led the way out of the room. The debriefing rooms were on the upper levels, and they met no one in the halls or elevators as they made their way there. It had taken more than five minutes, and they were greeted with Coulson's frown when they entered the room.

There was already someone sitting at the table, and Natasha wrinkled her nose. The woman turned, long blonde hair still tangled from sleep, and waved. "Hey guys." She raised a hand to her mouth to smother a yawn.

Natasha nodded and took the seat next to hers. Clint hesitated, glancing between everyone in the room. "What's Bobbi doing here?"

Natasha reached over and tugged Clint into a seat. Coulson watched them silently from the head of the room. He was clearly waiting for someone. Coulson possessed a natural pokerface, one so effective that Natasha frequently had trouble reading him. It had caused problems early on, but time and familiarity had tempered her aversion. There was nothing to be learned from his expression, and he wouldn't reveal anything until the Director showed up. Natasha kicked her feet up onto the table and began picking at her nails. Next to her, Clint yawned and lowered his head onto his folded arms.

"Should we be worried, sir?" Morse asked. "What's going on?"

"We're waiting for the Director and Agent Potter," Coulson said.

Morse shifted, probably uncomfortable with Coulson succinctness, and Natasha's nose wrinkled. She had had little opportunity to work with Bobbi Morse, though they had entered SHIELD around the same time. They had trained together a few times, but after Morse's fourth trip to the infirmary Coulson had put a stop to it. Rumor was that Morse had improved since then. Newly interested and equally bored, Natasha turned her head and examined her. Her attention had Morse shifting again. Natasha stared for a while, watching Morse grow more and more antsy as she waited for Natasha to speak. Finally Clint reached out and poked Natasha where her twelfth rib used to be. It didn't hurt, but a familiar prickling sensation shot down her spine and deadened her fingertips. She turned to stare at him, and he stared back, lips downturned just enough to indicate his disapproval.

She sighed and shifted out of the way, flexing her tingling fingers. They didn't have to wait long before the door slid open.

Harry walked in, coffee mug in hand, glasses on, and hair wilder than ever. He, like Clint and Morse, had obviously been sleeping when Coulson contacted them. He took a moment to glower at each of them, saving the majority of his ire for Coulson. He sat down on Clint's other side, and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. Clint reached out blindly and gave his shoulder a little pat.

Morse was leaning forward in her seat to better examine Harry's profile. She reached past Natasha and over Clint to offer Harry her hand.

"Bobbi Morse. You must be Harry Potter?"

Harry ignored her, sniffed, and sipped at his coffee. Morse took her hand back, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled in offense.

"Don't mind him," Clint said without lifting his head. "He's a dick until his third cup."

Harry yawned, and rested his chin into an upturned palm. His next sip was more of a gulp, his eyes closed but his motions unhesitant.

"A bit young for a caffeine addiction, isn't he?"

Morse had leaned back in her chair, so her view of Harry was impeded by Natasha. She couldn't see Harry's eyes open, or his sudden frown. At the front of the room, Coulson began to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Doctor Barbara 'Bobbi' Morse," Harry said around a yawn. "Codename Mockingbird. Born in San Diego, California to Susan and Richard Morse, on March 29th, 1973. How's your brother Ben doing, Agent? Do you think he'll stay on the wagon this time?"

Morse went white and the room went silent. "What the fuck?" Her gaze bounced to each of them in turn, equally shocked and offended. "How the hell do you—? What the actual fuck?"

"Eloquent," Harry said, tone and expression unbothered.

Like a whip cracking, Coulson's voice cut through the cresting tension. "Enough, Potter."

"I could have babysat you in high school, brat!"

"That is _enough_, Agent Morse."

There were many things that Coulson was good at. Somehow managing to diffuse most volatile situations while leaving both aggressive parties feeling utterly inconsequential was one of them. Natasha basked in Morse's discomfort, while Clint shook his head.

"Seriously," he said to the tabletop. "Now there are two of you."

They fell back into silence. When the Director arrived a few minutes later, he examined them each in turn before looking to Coulson.

"No one's dead or bloodied."

"It was a close thing, sir."

"Where's Hill?"

"Indisposed, but she's been briefed."

"Good." Fury turned to them, resting his hands on the head of the long table. "A situation has developed."

As he spoke, Coulson dimmed the lights and a topographical map was displayed on the far wall. "We've received intel that there's going to be a major arms deal in Amazonas, Brazil." The image changed to a blurred picture of a man in the passenger seat of a 4x4, surrounded by jungle. "This is Luiz Vitor. You're all familiar with his file. Deals in major arms. We think that he might be connected to HYDRA."

Harry sighed loudly into his coffee.

"Something to say, Agent Potter?"

Harry muttered something intelligible.

"I'm sorry," Fury said. "None of us heard you."

Harry frowned up at him. "Fine," he said. "I have a question. What is SHIELD's obsession with HYDRA, really? It's been around in some form or other _forever._"

"By forever, do you mean the 1940's?" Morse asked,

Harry opened and closed his eyes, too slow to be a blink. He spoke without looking at her. "Try 5th through 4th centuries BC," he said. "Or didn't you learn that in high school?"

"Seriously, what the hell is this kid doing here? Someone go find him a teething ring so the adults can continue their conversation."

Harry was still for a moment but the subtle tensing of his shoulders gave him away. Before he was even an inch out of his seat, Clint's hand was shoving him back down into the chair. An instant later, Clint was leaning into Harry's face, strong fingers digging into Harry's shoulder. The way he stared into Harry's eyes was very familiar, and Natasha watched, fascinated by the way this appeared from the outside. It didn't happen very often anymore, but she could still remember him forcibly staring into her eyes, prompting her to calm herself before she resorted to violence. Harry's eyes were greener than Clint's, Natasha noted. Greener than hers as well. Even so, there was something about Clint that always calmed her down. It seemed to be working on Harry as well.

Clint raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. Harry reached up, rubbed a hand over his mouth, and nodded.

"You're the sassiest," Clint said. The corners of his mouth turned up into an almost smile. He held Harry for another moment before releasing him. He turned to Morse, and stabbed a finger at her face. "Leave off, Bobbi."

Morse's eyes widened, her expression turning open and entreating. "Clint, come on."

Clint's eyes jumped to Natasha for a moment. When his gaze returned to Morse it had hardened. "No. You know better."

Morse looked to Natasha as well, and Natasha turned to stare at her. After a moment Morse's gaze fell from hers.

"You all done angsting?" Fury asked.

"Jury's out, sir, but best move on anyway."

"Sir? If I may?" Fury glanced over at Coulson and waved at him to continue. "Agent Potter is correct," he said and Morse's mouth tightened. "HYDRA's origins do reach as far back as the greek classical period. The incarnation that we are currently dealing with, first popped up in the 40's during WWII."

"Captain America took care of that didn't he? Didn't he _die _eliminating that threat?"

"'Cut off one head, two more will grow in its place,'" Coulson quoted. "We have circumstantial evidence that HYDRA as been involved in every major military conflict in the last fifty years."

"So they're a threat, one that we're supremely positioned to combat," Fury said. "Can we move on now? We want Vitor. You four will go in ahead of a SHIELD strike team. Your target is Vitor. As soon as he's secure the strike team will mop up behind you."

"Messy," Morse said.

"And that's the point," Coulson said. Fury nodded at him, and he continued. "Vitor might be a small fish, but he's good at going to ground. We've received intel that he'll be in Brazil just long enough to make the sell. In forty-eight hours he'll be in the wind."

"Dress for wet heat," Fury said. "Wheels up in an hour."

* * *

"You're still awake."

Jack almost flinched out of his chair. One of his flailing hands caught on the handle of his coffee mug, knocking it from the edge of the table. Reyes reached out, fingers splayed. The mug hung in mid air, frozen. With her other hand Reyes plucked it up and sat it back on the table top. Jack blinked, rubbing one of his eyes with ink stained fingers.

"Uh yeah. Wow thanks. That would have been a mess."

"It's 3 o'clock in the morning. Why aren't you sleeping?"

Jack turned, already motioning at the stacks of old newspapers, ready to explain what he was doing. The words frizzled out as he finally took in Reyes - Gale - who had exchanged her CeMDA uniform for her pajamas.

Jack hated the traditional CeMDA robes - he had never been able to shake the feeling that he was wearing a dress, no doubt the result of growing up in mundane Chicago and having a father born of a mundane family. The field uniform was better. It was a long darkly colored double breasted trench coat. Most male agents wore slacks underneath. Gale wore riding pants with long dangerous looking heeled boots.

He had taken note of it. He'd admired her figure when he was sure that she wouldn't catch him doing so, but that was all. Her coolness quashed any inclination he'd might have had to engage her in conversation outside of the mission. In her uniform she looked untouchable, cold and dangerous. Such sharpness was unlikely to be an accident.

Dressed for bed, standing in the small room that the embassy had put aside for his office, the carefully maintained distance between them seemed utterly bridgeable. Her hair, typically pulled back into a tight bun, had been released to brush against her shoulders. It wasn't completely straight either. She had bathed recently - her thick hair was still damp and curling loosely.

She was wearing sweatpants that were too large for her. The tops of her feet were lost in them. Her arms and shoulders were bare. She looked…

Jack blinked, and swallowed. "I was doing reading. Doing research, I mean. Trying to track down Black." He turned from her, reaching absently for his coffee. "There's a lot of information here, a lot of it is conflicting."

"You're meeting with the people at Hogwarts in the morning."

Her implication was clear and Jack turned in his seat, squinting through the headache pulsing in his temples. "Look, it's not that simple." He slapped a hand down on stack of parchment, releasing a cloud of dust. "I know his official records. Every mission. Every little thing that anyone in the Ministry or media ever wrote about him. But it doesn't make sense."

Reyes sat in the only other chair in the room, leaned back, legs crossed and arms folded. The unsteady light from the gas lamp on the desk caught her eyes, and for the first time Jack saw that they weren't black, but brown. He blinked, and looked away.

She sighed. "This can't be so difficult," she said. "Even I've heard of this guy. He betrayed his friends to Voldemort, murdered 10 innocent mundanes, and thirteen years later was the only man to escape from Azkaban Prison unassisted. He died fighting for Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, his magic sucked from him with the rest of the Death Eaters." Reyes tilted her head to the side. "Done."

Jack took a slow breath, any attraction he had for her disappearing in a single annoyed instant. "Okay. Number one, it was thirteen mundanes not ten, and they call them muggles here. Number two, he was sent to prison without any trial or hearing of any kind, so I'm not entirely convinced of his guilt. Number three, there are eyewitness accounts of Sirius Black fighting _against _Voldemort and his followers."

He picked up a thick binder of old newspaper clippings and shook it in her direction. "And here. News reports, all conflicting, written shortly Voldemort returned summer of '94. Some say that he never betrayed the Potters, that it was their other friend, Pettigrew. Others written just after Voldemort's first death say the opposite, that Pettigrew died trying to capture Black after the Potters' deaths. Now why would Pettigrew do that?"

Jack picked up a thin leather folio and flipped it open, revealing Peter Pettigrew's official transcript from Hogwarts. His words came quicker now. "This man was unremarkable. His magic was just developed enough to wield a wand. Why on earth would he think he could capture Black by himself? Why would Black betray the Potters in the first place, when all pervious records indicate that he was their friend, James Potter's best friend? If he did to it - and I really don't think he did - what was his exit strategy? He had to know that everyone would suspect him. It's stupid, and the one thing that everyone can agree on is that Sirius Black is not stupid. And of course the only people that know for sure are _dead._"

Jack took a deep breath, and ran a hand over his face. "And why would he escape in the first place? After sitting in jail for thirteen years, something made this man escape and go to Hogwarts."

Jack turned to his audience, and saw that her eyes were wide and her mouth was slack with surprise. Retroactively, he realized that this was the first time Reyes had spent any time around him when he was working - not interviewing, but truly working. At headquarters his rank afforded him his own office, and most of the other Finders had learned the hard way not in interrupt him. If he had to talk aloud, he usually spoke to himself. He'd forgotten that people were often overwhelmed when he got like this. It seemed even unflappable Reyes wasn't immune.

He watched her swallow. "Well…" she said. "There's at least one person who knows for sure."

Jack shook his head. "The Chief wants all of this figured out before we meet with Potter." He sighed. "No, the Headmistress had all of them as students. She was there when all this was going on. Maybe she'll have the answers."

"I think," Reyes said, obviously choosing her words carefully. "That it's not that people don't have the answers."

Jack was nodding in agreement before she had finished speaking. "Yes, they're covering, but it's bigger than Black." He paused, rubbing his hand across his mouth. "Bigger than Potter too. Something so big that it collapsed their government, destroyed people's magic." He frowned. "Killed people."

They sat in silence for a long moment, not looking at each other.

"Stone," Reyes began. She sighed. "Jack. Look, we've got six days until we have to report back. I don't think that the Chief expects you to untangle this mess all by yourself."

Jack shook his head. "If Potter has something to do with what happened here, the Chief is going to want to know. This kid disappeared off the face of the earth for three years. When he came back he was powerful enough to not just kill Voldemort, but assassinate him, destroy him and every single person he was bound to. That kind of power doesn't just disappear. We shouldn't have been able to lose track of him, but we did. How? Where did he disappear to after he'd done it?"

Reyes stared at him for a long moment. "Okay," she said. "But now it's half past 3 and we still have to be at Hogwarts in a few hours. If you haven't found the answers in there by now, do you really think you're going to?"

Jack glanced around at the stacks of parchment. He'd been through them, all of them. Everything he'd read swam through his thoughts, resisting his attempts to piece it together. He nodded, conceding Reyes' point.

He stood up, and Reyes stood up with him. She planted her small tan hands on her hips, and tilted her head to the side.

"I'm waking you up at 8:30, no matter what."

Jack yawned, walking over to the door and holding it open for her. "You have no pity."

She walked past him, expression utterly unsympathetic. "I'm not here for pity. I'm here to make sure you get to where you need to go."

This floor of the embassy was silent, deserted except for them. Their rooms were side by side, only a few paces down the hallway. The lamps were turned down low here, barely enough light to see by. Reyes paused outside her door, her eyes huge and dark.

"I'll see you in the morning."

Jack yawned again. "It is the morning."

"I'll see you soon then."

She walked into her room, closing the door softly behind her. Jack stood there for a moment, and shook his head.

"Yeah right, Stone," he said.

He didn't doubt that she would barge into his room in four hours to wake him. There was no time to be standing staring at closed doors.

* * *

Four hours later, Reyes had walked into his room and shaken him awake. The lines of her jacket as straight as ever, her edges primly sharpened. For a moment he mourned the loss of her softness, but then she was pushing a cup of coffee into his hand and telling him that their portkey was set to leave in thirty minutes. Then there had been little time to do anything but stumble around for his clothes.

His grandmother had been born in England, and had attended Hogwarts before meeting his grandfather and moving to the states. Jack had been fascinated, and more than a little jealous, that she had gotten to learn magic in a castle. Not to say that the Salem campus didn't have it's luxuries. Washington state was very lovely, even in the winter. But Hogwarts had been a place of fantasy for him for as long as he could remember.

The embassy had told them that it was still a school, in the broadest sense. It had also became the de facto center of magic in the United Kingdom. According to their sources, a city had sprouted up on its grounds, the result of the mass migration that had occurred after the Battle of Hogwarts. Jack supposed that it made sense. Hogwarts was centrodial, the center of magic in Britain the way the Ministry simply could not be. With their world raining down around their ears, it made sense that they would come here — the people that were left to come.

Their portkey had deposited them on the path leading down to the village of Hogsmeade, which was arranged below them, the castle distantly dark against a gray rolling sky. The village still mostly standing, but it had expanded into a sprawling expanse of ramshackle dwellings made with various materials and sizes. It looked distressingly like a refugee camp.

"No one told us it was this bad," Reyes said, and she spoke so quietly that her words were almost snatched away by the breeze.

Jack glanced at her face, and saw that she was frowning. She looked at him warningly, daring him to comment. He didn't.

"Come on," he said instead. "Looks like rain."

He began to make his way down the path but Reyes reached out and tugged him back.

"Wait," she said, and unholstered her wand.

Immediately, Jack did the same. As irksome as it was to do it, he let her take point. He watched her swing her head side to side, dark eyes narrowed and watchful.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

She was quiet for so long that Jack was convinced that she wouldn't answer. "You don't feel that?" she asked, speaking over her shoulder. "It felt like…" She left the thought unfinished, her attention arrested by whatever she had sensed.

"Felt like what?"

She suddenly brandished her wand, releasing a wave of multicolored sparks. Only a few feet down the path they struck an invisible barrier and bounced back. Reyes straightened, her expression tight.

"Wards."

"Obviously," Jack said, examining the barrier. He sent a few sparks of his own, watching as the barrier became opaque for an instant before becoming invisible again. "That's pretty neat." He held a hand out, only inches away, but couldn't feel it giving off any energy, but Reyes had.

Jack glanced at her, and saw that she was doing the same, except the sensation didn't seem comfortable to her. She pulled her hand back with a soft hiss and shook it out, flexing her fingers. She looked from him, to his hand and back again. She took a single step back, her wand held loosely in her dominate hand.

"Why didn't the embassy tell us about a barrier?" she asked.

"Don't know," Jack said, and walked perpendicular to the path, parallel to the ward ling, throwing sparks as he went to find its edges. It would have been too easy if it only spanned the pathway, but from what he could tell it continued into the surrounding woods as well. "Now what?"

Reyes shrugged. Jack sighed deeply in response, and she raised her eyebrows at him.

Jack pointed his wand at his throat. "_Sonorus." _Reyes rolled her eyes and he grinned at her. He took a breath. "_Hello? If there's anyone on the other side, we're from the American Bureau of Magic, the Central Magical Defense Agency! We have an appointment with the Headmistress that was arranged —._

"That's quite enough of that, thank you! _Quietus._"

The man who stepped through the barrier was rather plain looking at first glance. He was tall, taller than Jack at least, though that wasn't much of an achievement. His broad shoulders were rounded forward and he was slouching. Despite his poor posture, there was something in his face that reminded him of Madame Granger. It was enough to make Jack take a single step back so he was standing in line with Reyes, and tighten his grip on his wand.

"Hi," he said. "My name is Finder Jack Stone and I'm with the —."

"— the American Bureau of Magic, specifically the Central Magical Defense Agency." The man shook his head. "I heard you. We all heard you. I'm sure that there are people in the next village over that heard you." He stuck his hand out. "Neville Longbottom. We've been expecting you."

"If you were expecting us, why put a ward up?" Reyes asked.

Longbottom stuck his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans and managed to slouch even further. "The ward is permeant. It helps keep the magic in. Do you have family from here?" he asked, his head abruptly swinging in Jack's direction.

"Uh, yeah. My grandmother went to Hogwarts."

Longbottom nodded. "That explains it. Come on. The Headmistress is expecting you."

He walked back through where Jack figured the ward began and disappeared. Jack took a slow breath and followed him. There was no sense of walking through anything, and when Jack glanced back, the path looked exactly the same, Reyes looking uncertain a few feet away. The first buildings of the village loomed almost directly in front of them. On the other side the village looked much farther away, obviously the affect of a glamour built into the ward. Reyes stepped through the barrier, her face pinched.

"It's because you weren't born here," Longbottom said. "The land will get used to you if you stick around long enough."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Jack asked. "What happened here?"

"The Headmistress will explain everything." He glanced down at his watch. "Come on."

He began to lead them through the maze of buildings. They passed out of Hogmeade and into the maze of wizard tents that they had seen from the path. It was not so bad up close, though that might be due to low expectations. What appeared like chaos from far away, was anything but. The tents were arranged in a staggered grid, marked out by stone paths winding through them. As they walked, a group of children ran underfoot. One of them, a little girl, latched onto Longbottom's hand. Instead of slowing, he raised his arm, lifting the girl off her feet.

"Patty," he said, his expression very serious. "Why aren't you and the others in class?"

Patty was giggling, swinging her feet in the air. Longbottom showed no signs of strain as he carried her, in fact his pace had barely slowed. Jack glanced at Reyes, who quickly rearranged her face to the typical impassiveness. It didn't matter. Jack had seen the reluctant appreciation for his inadvertent show of strength. He raised his eyebrows at her and she scowled in return.

"We're on break," Patty said.

"You just had a break."

"It's the same break," Patty said, and swung her legs again.

Longbottom finally smiled. He swung his arm, and the little girl squealed as she flew through the air. She was running the moment she hit the ground.

"Go back to class!" Longbottom shouted after her. She waved over her shoulder and ducked between two tents further up the path. At once there was the sound of multiple children laughing, and their receding footsteps as they passed out of hearing. "Well I did my bit," Longbottom said, shaking his head.

"They seem a little young for Hogwarts," Jack said.

Longbottom glanced at him over his shoulder, considering him for a long moment. Then finally, "They're not students, not technically. They came with the families who migrated here. Some of the parents think it more efficient to go over the pre-Hogwarts schooling in groups. It wasn't unheard of before, and its even more convenient now."

"We'd heard that things were bad, but we didn't know that so many people had lost their homes."

Longbottom sighed. "A lot of the old estates were stripped of their magic. Hogwarts is one of the last places left."

Jack glanced at Reyes who's frown of confusion reflected his own. "What do you mean by that?"

Longbottom shook his head. "I'm not the person to try to explain it. The Headmistress can answer all your question better than I ever could."

They walked in silence, Longbottom greeting a few people as they made their way up to the castle doors. Jack was fine with that, attention spent trying to imagine the grounds as they were. The entrance hall was huge, but not empty. People were sitting at desks, working. Others were standing in groups, talking. In the center of it all was Madame Granger, a stack of paper resting on one hip, as she leaned over reading something over someone's shoulder. Behind her, four other wizards were waiting their turn for her attention. Jack had slowed, turning in a slow circle as he attempted to take everything in.

"The Ministry building is intact," Longbottom said. "But most people can't stand to stay in there for long. The magic is fouled there, more than anywhere else."

"What's she doing?" Jack asked.

"Hermione?" Longbottom asked. "Well, we lost a lot during the Fall. Technically she's an assistant to the Minister, but really, she's in charge of documenting what's left, recording information from the oldest records before the magic runs out. Nothing like this has happened before, and no one was ready for it. The Fall was…hard." He paused for a long moment. "It hit the oldest families the worst. A lot of our records existed in our blood tomes. Genealogies going back to before Merlin organized the magic, inheritances, family trees, laws - it was all stored magically. Self updating. When Voldemort cast his spell he was trying to, among other things, wipe the slate clean." Longbottom smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth. "We stopped him, and now we're cleaning up his mess." He motioned to the large marble staircase. "We're running late."

The journey up to the seventh floor was also made in silence. Jack let Reyes and Longbottom walk ahead of him and took the opportunity to brood, thinking over what Longbottom had said. He did a good deal of gaping as well. The castle felt old, majestic and grounded in a way that Jack had not experienced before. He wasn't sure, but it also felt just a bit sad. Longbottom stopped next to a rather angry looking gargoyle. He leaned forward and whispered something into one of it's stone ears. It jumped to the side, and the wall behind it split in two, revealing a spiral staircase.

"You can take it from here, I think," Longbottom said.

"Thanks," Jack said and offered her hand.

Longbottom pumped his arm once and released him. He turned on his heel and left without a backwards look, shoulders still slumped.

Reyes looked at him this time, lips pressed together. "Something awful happened here," she said, stating the obvious.

Jack sighed. "Yeah."

"As far as I know this is the first investigation CeMDA as done since the news reached us. Why didn't we —?"

"I don't know," Jack said. "But we're here about Harry Potter."

"It's all the same thing."

"Yep." Jack took a slow breath. "Let's go."

Jack stepped onto the staircase which immediately began to move. He raised his hand to knock on the door at the top, but a voice spoke before he could follow through.

"Enter."

Jack glanced at Reyes, who looked back at him with raised eyebrows. Jack pushed the door open and entered a large circular room, which large windows. Paintings were hung on the walls, though many of the frames were empty. Jack walked forward and offered his hand to the tall stern woman sitting behind the large desk.

"Hello Headmistress McGonagall. I'm Finder Jack Stone. This is Auror Gale Reyes. We're here to —."

"To interview me about Harry Potter," McGonagall said. "Ms. Granger has already warned me. She also told me that you were a bit rude, and slightly unintelligent. I'll tell you right now that I don't have time for that, young man. I've got a school to run. So let's get to it."

Jack blinked, swallowed, and blinked again. "Yes ma'am." He began digging in his bag, and pulled out his quick notes quill. "May I set this on your desk? Thank you." He sat down, fiddling with his leather notebook. "Can I have your full name and position, for the record."

"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." She peered at him through her square glasses. "Will that do?"

"Yes, of course." Jack dithered for a moment, but then decided that Madame Granger must have learned her particular brand of intimidation at the Headmistress' knee, and that their tolerance for circumvention was low, if they held any at all. "When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Potter?"

"Directly after the Battle of Hogwarts," McGonagall said. "I was the last person who spoke to him before he left us."

"Left? Where did he go?"

"I'm not sure," McGonagall said, and her expression softened just a little bit. "I did ask. I invited him to come back to school. He would have been welcome here."

Jack frowned. "Even though he technically wasn't a student anymore?"

"Of course," the Headmistress said.

"Even though he was a part of what happened to the magic here?"

Headmistress McGonagall visibly bristled, her spine stiffening, any residual gentleness leaking abruptly from her face. This woman had dueled Voldemort twice. She had taken over Hogwarts after Albus Dumbledore's death, and held it through two weeks of magical siege. She could have easily become the de facto leader of the British Isles. She hadn't, and sitting across from her now, Jack couldn't conceive of a reason why she wasn't.

"The blame for our current situation rests solely on Voldemort," she said.

Jack took a breath and plunged. "I had heard something very different, Headmistress."

McGonagall leaned back in her chair. "And what do you suppose to do, if you find that you are right? Will you capture Harry and punish him, even though we as a people have refused to do so?"

Jack swallowed. "No. Of course not. I just want to understand what happened here." He motioned at Reyes, who had slipped into her typical silence. "We both do. Or superiors do too."

McGonagall was silent for a long moment, her gaze penetrating. "It is not my story to tell."

Jack sighed. "Then who can I speak to?"

"You need to find Sirius Black."

Jack wanted to throw his hands up, but he didn't. He took a slow breath instead. "Madame Granger suggested the same thing. I mentioned it to our people at the embassy. As far as they know he died in the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Well he didn't."

Jack waited for her to continue. When it was clear that she had no inclination to go on, he closed his eyes for a moment. He could go home, he thought, but he knew that he wouldn't. These people, with their hard unforgiving eyes, and their silence - Jack needed to know their secrets. This whole thing was a story that grew more and more precarious the deeper he went. At the center was Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-and-disappeared. Sirius Black was the connecting piece, the murderer who was not a murderer. A man who didn't make sense. These people were Harry Potter's friends. They were protecting him, protecting both of them.

"I understand," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Do you?"

"I do. You want to protect them." Jack leaned forward, resting his hand on the edge of her desk. Her eyebrows went even higher. "We just want to know what happened here."

"Yes," McGonagall said. "We know that. What we don't know, is why _you _want to know."

Jack only hesitated a moment. "We've made contact with him. I mean, my superiors have."

Reyes turned to stare at him, her eyes narrowed. Jack barely noticed. His eyes were on McGonagall, who had leaned forward in her seat, her lips pressed so tightly together that they had turned white.

"You already have him. He's in your custody."

"No, I don't think so. All my boss told me was that he was suddenly on our radar."

McGonagall was quiet for a long time. Jack waited, all his cards bared to her. "Stone," she finally said. "I knew a Stone. Ellena Stone. Any relation?"

Jack blinked. "My grandmother."

"Ravenclaw wasn't she?"

"Uh, yeah. Yes, she was."

"She was a good student." McGonagall's face softened. "You don't feel it, do you? The wrongness?" She turned and addressed Reyes for the first time. "But you do." She sighed, wrinkles deepening. For the first time since they'd walked into the office, the Headmistress appeared old. "Voldemort did an evil thing to this land in an attempt to gain absolute power. He tore something, shifted it. There are many people who cannot use their magic at all. Spells, centuries old, unraveled. The pureblood estates, built generations ago, have become husks. Many of the less powerful can't even wield their wands anymore. Many people lost their homes."

"So they came here," Reyes said.

McGonagall nodded. "Since he was very small, our society has placed a great deal of responsibility on Harry's shoulders. I would spare him this."

Jack's eyes widened. "Are you saying that he doesn't know what's going on here?"

McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Of course he knows. Wherever he's been, I very much doubt that he was living under a rock."

"He did something," Reyes said. "When he killed Voldemort something happened."

McGonagall sighed. "No one could have foreseen this."

"We'll do our best to keep it to ourselves," Jack said. "Especially if it was an accident, but we need to know, Headmistress."

She was quiet for a moment, staring down at her folded hands. She closed her eyes and spoke without looking up. "Very well. If you must have your answers, Sirius can give them to you. Good luck trying to convince him you mean Harry no harm. He's at the top of the North Tower."

"He's here?" Jack asked.

"Well he lives here. He's out right now, but I'll let him know that you wish to speak to him."

Jack glanced at Reyes who was doing a much better job of hiding her surprise. "I was expecting…"

McGonagall smiled, a tiny genuine thing. "Some things are easy. Don't over think it."

She stood up, Jack and Reyes standing as well. "I have another appointment in a few minutes."

"Thank you for all your help."

"I must admit, I didn't do it for you. I did it for Harry."

Jack nodded, not at all offended. "We're staying at the embassy. We'll be there until next Friday."

"I cannot promise that he'll contact you, but I'll speak to him."

Outside her office, Jack ran a hand over his mouth and laughed. "We're so close," he said. "Oh my god, I can taste it. Answers, _real _answers."

Reyes shook her head. "You're getting your hopes up."

"Yeah," Jack said. "Yeah I am. I should contact the Chief. Maybe ask for an extension."

He turned away, unhesitatingly beginning to make his way back to the entrance hall. Reyes fell into step at his side. She did a poor job of hiding her own smile, but Jack wasn't nearly foolish enough to point it out.

* * *

New York to Brazil was a long trip. Natasha and Harry did the smart thing, put in earplugs, curled up, and went to sleep almost immediately. This left Clint as the designated lookout, a responsibility that he took very seriously. Before Harry, there had been Clint and Natasha in all their dysfunctional glory. It was true that Natasha's evolvement with SHIELD had been a great deal more voluntary than Harry's, though they decision to give her a choice had been Clint's. Still it had been a long fight for the trust that laid between them. Months of learning each other, learning to trust another person.

Clint had expected the same from Harry, the same long, winding and dangerous road to true partnership. He was careful to maintain certain level of distance between them, but how was he to know that Clint and Natasha had danced this dance before? His defenses were nothing that either of them hadn't seen and surmounted before. More than that, it was clear that Harry wanted to trust them. Natasha had seen in almost immediately - the kid's yearning to belong to something. It made Clint wonder how hard he had fought on that roof, how he had been holding back the entire time. It made Clint wonder why the kid was here at all, when it was clear that he could leave any time he wanted.

Clint turned his head and watched them, both of them. On the hull opposite, Bobbi shifted in her harness. She'd been glowering at him over the dossier that Coulson had put in her hands right after take off. Clint glanced at Harry and Nat, then at Coulson, who was sitting in the co-pilot's chair. No doubt in his mind that Coulson was listening.

Clint sighed. "Go ahead, Bobbi."

Her expression didn't shift. She kept her eyes down and made a show of flipping a page in the packet. "Hmm?"

"Let's have it. Get it out of your system."

Bobbi played dumb for all of two seconds. "What the hell Clint?"

"There we go."

"What's the deal with this kid?" At least she was keeping her voice down. "Why do you and Coulson keep picking these guys up? Do you or do you not remember what he had to go through with Romanov?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Romanova, Bobbi. It's Romanova, because she's a _lady_. I've corrected you like ten times."

"Her file says—."

"Coulson went in and made that correction," Clint said. "Are you saying that you want me to call you Barbara? I can totally get behind that."

"Don't you dare," she said. Clint raised his eyebrows, and Bobbi sighed. "Okay fine, whatever."

"Do we all have to come to SHIELD like you did?" Clint asked. "Does it really matter that much?"

"Romanova has a blood saturated resume that's miles long, but I can admit, she's good. The kid though, what's so special about him?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Coulson's head turn. If it was shareable then Coulson would have included it in the dossier. Not shareable then.

Clint shrugged. "Sorry."

Bobbi shook her head, but didn't seem too surprised. "Team Coulson," she said, smiling ruefully.

Clint glanced at what he could see of Coulson's face, and saw him roll his eyes.

"That's right," Clint said.

Bobbi went back to examining the mission specs, no longer glaring at him every few minutes. Clint pulled out his phone and resumed his rather epic game of snake. A few hours later, Nat opened her eyes and lifted her head.

"Oh thank god," Clint said, and began to dig around for his earplugs. "My turn."

"You could have woken me. Or the whelp."

"I've been awake for the last thirty minutes," Harry said without opening his eyes. "And I resent being called anything but my name."

"Kiddo," Clint said. "Short stuff, Contrary Mary, Mr. Surly."

Harry opened his eyes and glowered. "I can't wait till we get back. There's this new take down sequence I want to try."

"I'm not your training dummy."

"No, you're _our_ training dummy," Nat said. "Now take your turn, zaychik."

Clint stuffed his earplugs in and continued mouthing nicknames. Harry made a very rude hand gesture in return.

"Act your age please," Coulson called from the cockpit without even turning his head.

Clint settled into his seat, smiling in satisfaction. Next to him Natasha rolled her eyes so hard that it looked like it might have hurt. Clint closed his eyes, and began to doze. A few hours later, Harry was poking him awake.

"Twenty minutes to touch down."

Clint yawned, and pulled his earplugs out. Down the bench Natasha was strapping on her badass electro bracelets and Harry was relacing his boots. Bobbi had her goggles on and was fiddling with her batons. Clint tucked his earplugs back into his duffle, leaned back against the hull and closed his eyes. Roughly twenty minutes later, the transport touched down in a small clearing. The back hatch opened and almost immediately sweat began to bead on Clint's forehead. He eyed Nat, Harry, and Bobbi who were each encased in dark forest cameo, long sleeved body suits. His arms however, were blessedly bare.

"Shut up," Natasha said, and her hair was already beginning to frizz.

Coulson followed them as far as the hatch, appearing completely unruffled in his suit and sunglasses.

"You've got twenty-four hours get it done. We'll touch down and circle the area at the twelve hour mark." The corners of his lips turned up. "Remember your target is Viator, not each other." He glanced meaningfully between Harry and Bobbi. "Good luck."

He stepped back. The hatch closed, and the transport lifted off the ground and rose. It quickly passed out of even his sight, disappearing behind low laying clouds. Clint turned away and slipped his collapsed bow into the special holster at his hip next to his firearm. His quiver went over his shoulder, along with his broken down sniper rifle and ammo. When he looked up, Bobbi had the map open, and the sat locater hooked into her goggles interface. One thing about Agent Hill, she made sure her field agents had the coolest stuff.

"Seven clicks northwest," she said. "We've got four hours of darkness left."

"A night hike through the Amazon jungle. Yay," Clint said. "I'll take rear."

"Harry take point," Natasha said.

Clint wasn't looking, but he knew when Harry turned on the eyeshine because Bobbi sucked in a sharp breath. Harry must have been feeling particularly magnanimous; he didn't mock her for it.

"Let's move," Natasha said.

* * *

They had made good time through the jungle. Having Harry there to lead them around the worst obstacles helped assuage the inherent misery that the terrain induced. Bobbi signaled for them to stop a few meters away from the fence, huddled in the detritus at the base of a large tree. From there were able to examine the base that they had only seen overhead images of. There was a large central building, though scans had shown that the facility continued underground. There were a few tents out front, a central lookout post, with four more positioned inside a seven foot tall chain link fence. At least they didn't have to deal with barbed wire. Clint _hated _barbed wire.

The camp was large, large enough that it was unlikely that Vitor had the resources to build anything like it on his own. It supported the theory that he was in HYDRA's pocket.

They rested for a few minutes, hydrating from their long march. They still . They sat around the tactical map of the campy they'd been provided, going over the ingress plan. It was simple and messy, just the way Coulson and the Director wanted.

"Okay, let's get this done so we can get out of here," Clint said. "I want a shower."

Bobbi finished stowing her extra gear and bounced to his side. She was grinning ready to cause some mayhem. Clint smirked in return.

They parted with Harry and Natasha then, circling around to the front of the facility. Just inside the tree line, Clint unholstered his bow and called up a pair of explosive arrows. He took a deep breath in, and fired on the exhale. The arrows hit the base of the nearest watchtower and Clint grinned to himself. There was absolutely nothing like the first boom.

* * *

Harry went first, his eyes shining and the lines of his body heavily blurred. He sensed Natasha peeling off behind him, sprinting to one of the rear watch towers as Harry approached the other. He waited at the base of the fence, body low. As soon as he heard the explosion he was moving. He felt the push as his magic oozed out of his exposed skin, covering his face and his bare hands and then enveloping the rest of his body. He sighed, feeling huge and free for a long hanging moment. He fought it back, and reached for focus. His body was real, the darkness was helpful but dangerous. He was a person, and he had a mission.

Clarity came, if haltingly. He scaled the fence, barely pausing at the drop on the other side. He began to climb the tower, pulling himself up onto the platform behind two soldiers stationed there. They were visibly nervous, watching the chaos Clint and Morse were causing on the other side of the camp. They weren't expecting anyone to come up behind them. Harry stuck his knife in one man's back and twisted. His magic held the other one by the throat, crushing his larynx in one twisted. A few meters away, Natasha was standing up, two bodies at her feet. Harry swung down, dropping from beam to beam. Seconds later his feet were touching the ground. He eased into the shadow of one of the tents. A few moments later Natasha joined him. He touched his fingertips to hers, and his magic rushed from his body to hers. She was easily visible to him, but to anyone else she would be invisible in low light.

She shuddered for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of magic on her skin. They had practiced this, and she had taken to it far better than Clint had. Within moments she was signaling her readiness, and led the way forward. They moved from shadow to shadow, ducking around men rushing to deal with Clint and Morse. The main doors were open, and Natasha glanced over and rolled her eyes in exasperation. They ducked inside, the bright overhead lights rendering Harry's ability useless. He touched Natasha, drawing his magic back.

They didn't have very reliable scans of the inside of the building, so they were mostly on their own. Most of the guards were outside dealing with the more visible threat, but it was too much to hope that Harry and Natasha's presence had been missed. They moved quickly, searching for a ventilation duct in the ceiling. Harry boosted Natasha up and waited for her to offer her hand through the vent. He backed up a few steps, and then ran at the wall, spinning and pushing off with one foot. He caught her wrist and she pulled him up. Harry caught the edge of the vent cover with a tendril of magic and fastened it.

"I have no idea why Clint enjoys this so much," he whispered as he squirmed to untangle himself from her.

Natasha laughed. They wiggled onto their bellies, Natasha in front, with Harry covering the rear. The vents were tight, but they moved quickly, finding a down-shaft within minutes. More squirming and Natasha began descending feet first, one hand wrapped around Harry's ankle. A few minutes later her grip tightened, and then slipped away as she reached the end of the shaft. Now down a level, they began to make their way to the center of the building, and thankfully came across the elevator-shaft. Harry reached out past Natasha and unfastened the vent cover, holding it in space as he wiggled past her. He stuck his head through, drawing magic into eyes as he looked up, then down.

"The car is few feet below us," he said.

"How much is a few?"

"Four, maybe five. I'll go first."

He reached out and pulled himself free of the shaft, face up and holding onto the lip with his fingertips. He swung in free air for a moment and then dropped. His magic cushioned his fall, made it silent. He turned his gaze up, staring at Natasha as she poked her head out. She saw his eyes, and judged the distance herself. She disappeared for a moment, no doubt turning onto her back and pulling herself free like Harry had. She dropped, and Harry caught her.

"You're so handy to have around," she said.

"Thanks," Harry said, and found the hatch into the elevator car. "What time are we at?"

"Twenty-five minutes."

"Perfect."

Harry dropped into the elevator car, Natasha joining him a moment later. He reached out and doused the lights. The sounds of explosions reached them even here. There was no doubt that the target was awake by now. He would wait to the last moment to escape, but he would make the attempt. Instead he would walk straight into their hands. They only had to wait a few minutes, two or three. The elevator doors opened, Vitor talking frantically into a radio. He stilled when he noticed the darkness inside the elevator car, but it was too late. Harry spread his fingers, his magic reaching out and snagging Vitor close. He screamed, but there was no one to hear him - Natasha had already taken down his two bodyguards.

Harry laughed, and the sound echoed in the enclosed space. Vitor screamed again, and Harry muffled him. There was a certain joy in this, the enemy under his fingertips, eclipsed by his power. It had been so long. The man's heartbeat echoed in his ear, tapping out his fear in wondrous frantic staccatissimo. He was lost in the music of it, reveling.

The shock was unexpected and twice as unwanted. His magic lashed out, and he scrambled to recapture what he'd been so long without. But it was gone, escaped, and Harry came back to himself with a snarl. Natasha was pressed up against the side of the car, one of his hands tangled in her hair, his other hand encased in his magic and wrapped around her throat. One of her shock bracelets was smoking.

She was staring up at him, even in the darkness he could see that. He couldn't think; there were no thoughts. His magic, wild and damaged as it was, fizzled and retreated back. He felt it curling up small and depleted low in his chest. Harry's back bowed with it, his hand falling from Natasha's neck. There was a sharp twisting motion and their positions were suddenly reversed. He was only an inch taller than her. In boots she nearly dwarfed him. With her forearm pressing uncomfortably into his adam's apple, and her unfired shock bracelet digging into his kidney, he felt very, very small. She leaned forward, keeping a steady pressure on his throat. He jerked when her forehead touched his. She stared into his eyes for a long moment. So close there wasn't much else to look at - Harry stared back. His breathing deepened.

Half a day ago, Clint had done this too. Just like then, he felt his breath lengthening. Rage had fueled him then, now it was panic. Natasha drew it out, her touch a subtle threat and a balm all at once. He sighed, and his shoulders loosened. Natasha knocked her forehead against his and finally drew away.

Her lips twisted into an almost-smile, and she glanced down at their feet. "Look what you've done to him."

Harry looked down as well. Vitor was laying there, drooling into the grating. She reached down and pulled him to his feet. He swayed, his brown face gray with fear, and began babbling in Portuguese. Natasha tazed him. He screamed, and finally passed out. Harry bent and caught the bend of his waist before he could crumble to the ground. He straightened, their target slumped over his shoulder. Natasha eyed him for a long moment, her hand hovering over the communicator in her ear. Harry nodded, and she pressed the button on the side of the elevator, activating her comm at the same time.

"We have the target. There better be a path for us."

"Are you kidding?" Clint said at once. "Bobbi and I ran out of people to beat up like five minutes ago. I've been blowing up things for fun. Bobbi is making a human daisy chain."

The elevator began raising with a series of loud clangs, and Natasha's eyebrows rose. "I think that statement as connotations that you're unaware of."

There was a long pause. "Ew," Morse said quietly. "This suddenly isn't fun anymore."

"I feel like I missed something," Clint said.

"We'll explain it on the flight back," Morse said.

"I assume that this comm chatter is an indiction that you're ready for extraction?" Coulson said.

They grew quiet at that, and Clint offered an affirmative. "Do you have any idea what they're talking about 'Shade? Is this some sort of chick thing?"

The elevator doors opened. Natasha went first, her firearm unholstered. She did a sweep, but the hallway was deserted. It was a straight shot to the front door - much easier going out than coming in. They left the bunker and stepped into the predawn light.

"I'm not sure I'm the one to explain the facts of life to you, Hawkeye," Harry said.

The levity did not come easy, but it came. He carefully put aside his discomfort. He knew quite clearly that his position with SHIELD was tenuous. How useful could he be if he could not control himself?

"What do flowers have to do with sex?"

"Chatter," Coulson said, without heat. "Mop up team ETA in five minutes. They'll take Vitor off your hands."

Morse and Clint were lounging near the collapsed central guard tower, which had been reduced to a pile of smoking wood. The prisoners were sitting in a rough circle, their arms woven together behind their backs and their wrists secured with zip ties. Harry tossed Vitor down and cracked his back.

"Any trouble?" Clint asked.

Harry wandered a few feet away so he wouldn't have to hear Natasha's response. This put him closer to the men who had surrendered, and he glanced over at them, more interested in examining Morse's work than anything else. He didn't expect to recognize anyone.

It was Brother Eloi. Even behind the rough beard, blood staining half of his face - Harry recognized him. He'd known him only in passing, but they had eaten meals together. Eloi had been there when Harry had received his brand. There was recognition in his gaze, and he dipped his head slightly.

Harry walked back toward the others, and if Natasha had told them what had happened there was no indication of it. She couldn't say much in front of Morse. It would be later then, after they returned to headquarters. Clint had holstered his bow, but still held his handgun.

He grinned as Harry approached. "First mission where you're not the target and you get an easy one. Lucky. Ask Widow about her first mission some time."

"It was a disaster and it was all his fault," Natasha said over the sound of the approaching transport.

They turned to watch it swoop low over the trees, it touched down in a large clear spot a few yards away. The engines powered down, and the hatch opened. The strike team hustled past them, a few peeling off to guard the prisoners while others fanned out to search the camp. Natasha and Clint holstered their guns, and Morse slipped her batons into the sheaths on outside of each thigh. Coulson stepped out of the transport next, buttoning his suit jacket.

"Get onboard. You all look tired."

"Not going to ask how it went?" Clint asked.

"Sure I will, in great detail. But that's later."

It could only be a coincidence that Coulson was looking at Harry when he spoke. Harry scowled at him, and Coulson's eyebrows shot up, his head tilted to the side. He didn't ask. Coulson motioned for them to get onboard, and went to speak to the only other man not in full combat gear. The air inside the transport wasn't as humid, and Harry breathed a bit easier. As soon as he was sitting exhaustion washed over him, and he tipped his head back and groaned.

Clint collapsed in the seat next to his. Natasha sat down on his other side. Bracketed, Harry relaxed a little. If either one of them noticed, they were either kind enough, or tired enough not to comment.

Harry closed his eyes. He thought of the impending debrief, and what Natasha might say. But that was not where his worry truly rested.

That was hours from now, and a whole continent away.

* * *

AN: Thank you so much for your thoughts everyone. Chapter 1 has been edited slightly, not anything too extensive.

Feedback is amazing, so please please keep reviewing. I read every single one, even if I don't have time to respond.

I would like to clarify one point however. There will not be any pairings in this story, het or slash. There will be pairings in later stories in the series. One or more of them will be slash. Let's move on from that shall we? I'm not sure how much clearer I can make this.

On another note, I enjoy reading the reviews where people try to guess what is going on. Some of you are pretty close. Thanks again for reading!

-Owle


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